


The Heart's Filthy Lesson

by casket4mytears



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Police, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crossover, Eventual Logan and Veronica, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I promise it's not all doom and gloom, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Character Death, Murder, Murder Mystery, No I won't tell you what's in the box, Seven Deadly Sins, Seven Movie AU, Suspense, Team Sleuthing, Veronica and Logan survive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 71,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24227401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casket4mytears/pseuds/casket4mytears
Summary: “If the present world go astray, the cause is in you…” – Dante.Lieutenant Veronica Mars is eight days away from leaving policing—and a tragic loss—behind.  Detective Logan Echolls has returned to California after fleeing his demons fifteen years ago, anxious to prove he’s risen above them. Neither are prepared for the string of murders that strike the city, each slaying staged with a sinister message for the detectives.  A grisly game has begun, and the killer will not stop until the collection is complete...Veronica Mars X Se7en AU/Crossover.
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Lilly Kane, Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Comments: 296
Kudos: 113





	1. Before - Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wish for a crossover with one of my favourite movies of all-time? I am only too happy to oblige.
> 
> Some preamble and cautions:  
> 1) Read the tags carefully. As this is a tale of a serial killer, characters from the Veronica Mars universe will die.  
> 2) While the core elements remain the same, I will be remixing the film with events from the series and adding different subplots for flavour.  
> 3) Read the tags again re pairings.  
> 4) This story contains "after the fact" descriptions of violent crimes. Reader discretion is advised. If you're cool with Forensic Files, you'll be fine here.
> 
> Welcome to California, Se7en style...
> 
> Title taken from the David Bowie song of the same name. Many kudos to my perpetual cheerleader beta, Chikabiddy. There would be no fic without her telling me not to delete it. Show her love.

**[COVER ART](https://www.instagram.com/p/CCS5WRPJSup/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) by [hazzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazzy/pseuds/hazzy)**

**Before:**

A single lamp casts a jaundiced glow upon the drafting desk as careful hands reach for the scissors, freshly sharpened. They must be precise, every line neat and exact. A job is not worth doing unless it is done well.

An image is trimmed to size: a man in profile, trephination in progress. The world once knew how to cure its ills. It once understood its disease. Now, it is ripe with it. It lives inside everyone, unchecked. 

_Soon, they will understand. They will see what I see. Soon, we will all be clean again, even me._

Fingertips ache and ooze through gauze. A curse, a lament. It is necessary, but a stain will not do. This is enough work for today. Time to rest.

There is so much to do. So much to show them all.

To the left, a series of photographs pinned to a clothesline. The chosen ones. Worthless now as they scurry about and squirm, but within the cocoon, they will metamorphose. They will soar.

_Patience._

A bloody finger traces an image of a petite blonde crouched over a coroner’s bag, her face screwed up in anguish. Showing her will be particularly satisfying. She will understand the vision. She will ask why.

_See you soon_ …

* * *

**Sunday**

_“See? She’s had an ear ache since Thursday night. Been wailing from the fever all day.”_

“No,” Veronica mumbled in her sleep, her head turning on the pillow.

_“We’re sorry to disturb you. Do you have a pediatrician?”_

_Meg is walking down the hallway. Meandering away. Her hand reaches out, knowing what comes next, but Dream Veronica is locked in her loop, counseling the mother on children’s Tylenol and the free clinic she can attend for health care._

“Meg, no,” she muttered, rolling over.

_A closet door slides open. A cry in the darkness—_

“FUCK!” 

Veronica snapped awake, her flimsy tank top soaked in sweat. Smoothing damp strands of hair from her face, she glanced at the clock beside her bed. _Four thirty-four_. It was pointless to try and sleep another hour. There would be no peace, not while the rusty scent of blood haunted her memory. 

The anniversary was nine days away, not that she’d needed a calendar to sense its approach. It was a burden deep in her bones, a cancer sucking out the marrow. Three years later and it was no easier to bear: her partner was dead, killed in the line of duty, and it was her fault.

Not officially, of course. Even if her father wasn’t the Captain of her precinct, Internal Affairs had deemed the matter a tragic accident, the fault lying with both officers and a hearty helping of shitty luck. It did nothing to assuage the _survivor’s guilt_ the staff shrink had labelled her with. She forced a face of composure and dutifully jumped the hoops to get her gun and badge back, but the words were sandpaper lies scratching her tongue.

_Eight more days_ , she reminded herself as she swung her legs out of bed. _Then it’s off to Stanford._

Her father was strangely displeased with her decision to quit the force and finish law school. Considering he’d pushed her into it in the first place, pleading with her not to follow in his footsteps, she’d thought he’d do a backflip when she handed in her resignation letter. Instead, he’d given her that look of fucking disappointment she hated. That _so much potential_ sigh he’d ironically given her when she’d ditched law school after third year for the police academy.

The man couldn’t make up his mind. 

Or maybe it was because none of the other detectives in homicide could pull their heads out of their respective assholes long enough to manage a solve rate over 70%. Hers was 90%, a department record—and she was walking away at thirty-two. It was unheard of.

Turning on the shower, Veronica stripped down and stared at herself in the mirror. Unheard of or not, she was done. She was increasingly wary and gun-shy in the field, and that was what got cops killed. Dad knew it, she knew it. As a DA, she could still put away criminals without touching a gun or entering an active scene. Law school was the right choice. The only choice.

_Meg would be disappointed in you_ , a voice whispered in her head.

“Staying on brand,” she muttered, allowing the scalding water to pelt away the evidence of her inescapable mistakes.

* * *

A chill ran up her spine when the call came in. Homicide, off Ventura. Domestic gone wrong. The word _domestic_ an immediate trigger. Images flooded her mind: _shouts; a child crying; a man yelling._ Veronica shook it off, drawing deep breaths as she drove towards the scene. Of course, her father chose the middle of her damn panic attack to call and announce that her replacement was chomping at the bit to be shown the ropes.

“I’m on my way to a scene,” she snapped.

“So I’ll send him there to meet you,” Keith countered firmly. “Kid’s gotta learn. Might as well learn from the best I’ve got.”

“You’re biased,” she joked weakly, signalling her turn and thumping the steering wheel in frustration.

“I also have evidence to support my statement, Lieutenant Mars. Ventura? You sure you wanna back up on that one?”

She heard the concern in his voice. Her dad knew her well. Knew the anniversary was looming, a giant fucking elephant in the room with doe eyes and long, blonde hair.

“I’m fine. Sounds open and shut. Besides, everyone but the kid’s dead, right?” she replied darkly.

“Veronica—“

“Gotta go, Pops.”

She ended the call, parking her car behind the cruiser at the scene. A flash of the badge and she was trudging up the steps of the low rise to the third floor scene. 

_Fantastic. Detective Lamb’s on this one._

A shady piece of shit who barely passed for competent, he only managed to stick around because he at least understood enough of the letter of the law to not completely piss her father off. His solve rate was also 75%, which made him think he was a rock star in the unit, but really, it made him passable at planting evidence or fishing confessions out of gullible people. Veronica had no doubt he’d be the star of a Netflix documentary on police corruption in the next five years—and she’d binge the hell out of it.

“Daddy’s Little Girl is here. Must be my lucky day,” Lamb sneered.

“Your lucky day will be next Monday, when your pathetic solve rate will actually mean something in our mediocre department,” she snapped. “What’s the story?”

“You’re the hot shot detective. You tell me,” Lamb huffed, leading the way into the apartment.

Veronica resisted the urge to correct him on her rank, knowing the error was deliberate—a jab at her father’s history. Once the sheriff of the county police in nearby Neptune, he’d been recalled from office after daring to accuse one of the wealthiest residents of bludgeoning an heiress to death. A year later, he’d been proven right, but only after starting a private investigation firm. Despite the vindication, he’d turned his back on Neptune, biding his time until Veronica finished high school. A smaller fish in a bigger police pond, Keith Mars had quickly proven himself, ascending the ranks and earning Captain in six short years.

_With competition like Lamb, it should have been four._

Veronica eyed the starburst of scarlet on the kitchen wall as Lamb lifted a sheet off a prone body on the linoleum floor. To the left of the body lay a sawed-off shotgun, the muzzle spattered with sticky brown residue. The man beneath the sheet bore a sickening resemblance to Harvey Two-Face in the Batman comics, and she hated that this mental connection would ruin _The Dark Knight_ for her for the next year or so.

“Neighbours heard them screaming at each other. It was nothing new or unusual. But, then they heard the gun go off,” Lamb continued, his voice louder with every syllable. “ _Boom, boom_! Both barrels.”

_The spent shells tell me that, but thank you, Captain Obvious._

The room was dreary: yellowed wallpaper peeled from the corners of the walls, its once pink or red flowers a burnt orange. Despite the window over the sink, the overcast day yielded no natural light in the space. The light overhead had one burned out bulb, the other a low wattage, yellow bulb that made Lamb’s absurd spray tan a grotesque, almost shit-colour. Dirty dishes were stacked high in the sink, some crusted with mold. On the fridge, she spotted it: a child’s drawing in bright, bold colours. A mother and son, smiling in a sunny field. There were swings beside them, and a puppy. Veronica centred herself with it, focusing on the oversized ears of the brown and white dog with the bright blue leash.

“Did the wife confess? As in actually saying the words of her own free will?”

Lamb dropped the sheet and flipped his notebook open. “Confession? When patrol got here, she was crying too hard to understand a damn thing she was saying. She was trying to put his head back together. That’s a confession, right there.” Snapping the notebook shut, Lamb sighed. “Crime of passion.”

“Yeah. Look at all that passion, up on that wall,” Veronica deadpanned. Her fingers tapped the drawing as she glanced at the impatient detective. “Did the kid see what happened?”

“What kind of fucking question is that?”

Lamb’s hand slapped the door frame and Veronica winced, staring at his bare palm. _Evidence, idiot. Put on a glove, at least._ Leaning towards her, his eyes flashed dark. Predatory.

“We are all gonna be real glad to get rid of you, Baby Mars, you know that? Always so many questions with you. Maybe you should have asked some questions that night with Manning, huh?”

_Don’t pull your gun out, don’t pull your gun out, felons can’t sit for the Bar…._

“Maybe you should ask more questions and plant less evidence, and you’d have my solve rate, instead of jacking off in jealousy to it,” she hissed.

“I don’t plant, I _cultivate_ ,” Lamb sneered, stomping away from her as he continued to mutter beneath his breath. “Did the kid see it? The wife shot him… nothing else concerns us…”

Maybe it shouldn’t concern her. Eight more days, right? It was Lamb’s case. Not hers. And yet, a tiny spatter of blood on the corner of the drawing on the fridge had caught her eye. The trajectory—

“Detective Mars?”

Veronica startled, pivoting on her heel to find a tall, muscular man standing in the hallway, hands thrust in the pockets of a brown trench coat. His short brown hair was damp from rain and messy, his smile pensive.

“I’m Detective Echolls.”

“I know who you are,” she replied. “And it’s Lieutenant.”

Echolls frowned. “Oh. The guys downstairs—“

“Are sexist shitbags. Are you one of them? Because if so, you can head right on back to Boston, Detective.”

“No, my apologies. I should have clarified with Captain Mars.” His hand slipped free of his pocket, revealing a well-worn leather cover for a notebook with a silver pen tucked in the elastic band. “Captain said I should shadow you on the scene.”

“Open and shut, if you ask Detective Lamb,” she replied bitterly.

“And if I ask you?”

She shrugged. “You’re the trainee. What do you see, Detective?”

She took a step backwards, watching the newbie survey the kitchen. He paused at the kitchen sink, noting the dishes and disarray and making a note. His eyes cast upwards, cutting a trajectory from the body to the opaque globe overhead and back. He tilted his head and frowned at the shotgun, then lifted the sheet.

“Domestic call?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Fighting heard?”

“Two hours before the shots,” she replied coolly.

_No freebies._

“There’s no blood on the light,” Echolls remarked casually. “Need to get the techs in here, but I don’t see spatter.”

_Smarter than Lamb. Bring it home…_

“What does that mean to you, Detective Echolls?”

He gestured to the drawing on the fridge, waving his pen. “Kid’s about eight, based on the skill here, unless he’s a prodigy. Which means he probably knows his height and proportion. Mom’s pretty short. She’d have to blow Daddy’s head off at an angle that would splatter that globe if he was standing in front of her.” 

Detective Lamb, who’d wandered in just in time to catch the tail end of Echolls’ assessment, was turning… well, Oompa Loompa tans couldn’t turn bright red, but whatever colour of tangerine he was turning, it was bringing Veronica great joy.

“I’d talk to the kid,” Echolls concluded, scribbling in his notebook.

“Talk to the kid, talk to the _fucking_ kid!” Lamb grumbled, storming down the stairs.

Veronica nodded thoughtfully, resisting the urge to gloat. “I think we’re done here, Detective. After you.”

The sky was slate grey as they stepped outside, the rain pelting down hard. It was a cold rain, the kind that lingered in the bones. Veronica took refuge beneath the awning of an adjacent bodega, waving in the waiting forensics team. She nudged the spatter technician, reporting their concerns with the light fixture.

Echolls dwarfed her if he stood upright, but she noted that he hunched slightly beside her, bringing himself closer to her height. Adjusting to his surroundings, creating familiarity. It was a skill, a useful one. Her father had chosen a reasonable replacement to shape. If she had two months, maybe three, he would likely be a fine addition to the force. One week? He’d be running to catch up until she was writing her midterms.

_Not your problem, Veronica_.

“Lieutenant, I apologize for interrupting your day like this. Not even in town twenty minutes and I’m getting dropped at your crime scene.”

Veronica dismissed his worries with a wave of her hand. “That’s my father for you. Look, Echolls? I was thinking that maybe we could find a bar somewhere. Sit down, get to know each other and—”

Echolls frowned, running a hand through his damp, spiky hair. “Actually, I’d like to get right to the precinct. You know, not much time for this transition thing.”

“Fair.” Yanking her keys from her pocket, she jerked her head towards her car. “Alright, we’ll do this sober.”

Inside her pocket, her cell phone rang. A glance at the display told her it was her father. His personal line, which meant she could ignore it—and she did. She was on duty, after all. She needed to focus.

Logan Echolls was going to require all of her focus for the next eight days.

She’d dug into his history through official and not-so-official channels prior to his offer letter hitting the desk. Son of actors Aaron and Lynn Echolls (nee Lester, deceased, suicide by jump from the Golden Gate bridge). Emancipated at age eighteen, took his trust fund and moved to New York. Graduated from John Jay College and entered Boston PD despite juvenile transgressions. Money will seal records and buy you a pardon, of course. 

His modest home, however, told her he wasn’t entitled and had a sense of what a dollar meant. It was almost a defiance of his youth, and she could appreciate that. What she couldn’t fathom was what came next: a move _here_ , when by all accounts, Echolls was on the fast track in a team of competent colleagues. 

That was what she’d intended to pry out with a little lubricant at a pub, but fine. She’d do it straight, no chaser.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you since we spoke briefly the other day,” she began, pulling out onto the main drag. 

“A question?”

“Yeah. Why _here_?”

She stole a sideways glance as she made a sharp right turn onto 5th, noting his almost perfect mask of nonchalance, save one tell: the soft twitch of his pinky finger against the passenger door. _Tap-twitch-tap_. A nervous habit.

“I don’t follow,” Echolls deflected.

The wipers sluiced away the rivulets of water streaming down, offering a limited view of the lane ahead. 

“Well, you went through a lot of effort to get transferred from what most would consider a great post. It’s the first question that popped into my head.”

A left turn through a deep puddle, courtesy of the fine public works department and their years-long backlog. Veronica grimaced as her bald tires skidded slightly. She really needed to make that service appointment a priority before the drive back to Stanford.

“I guess… for the same reasons you wanted to work here. Before you quit,” Logan added, a hint of defiance in his voice.

“So, you’ve grown weary of the patriarchal overprotectiveness of your father dictating your career choices and have decided to show him anything he can do, you can do better? You’re tired of your Ethics professor trying to get you drunk and drag you back to his shitty apartment? And Dad thought we wouldn’t get along!” Veronica chuckled playfully, smirking at Echolls.

If her faux-enthusiasm had knocked him off his game, Echolls recovered quickly. “I wanted to be somewhere I could make a difference. ‘ _I do not care about the length of my role. But it should make a difference to the story_.’ Rishi Kapoor.”

“And you weren’t making a difference to the story in Boston,” Veronica surmised.

“No, I wasn’t.”

Veronica signalled for the turn that would take them to the precinct’s main entrance. “So, why not NYPD, then?”

Logan shrugged. “My girlfriend grew up in California and so did I. It seemed like time to come home.”

“Ah, yes. Lilly Kane, of the software mogul Kanes.” Veronica had noticed her name on the lease in Boston. 

Logan turned in his seat, leaning towards her. “You checking up on me?”

“She was on your emergency contacts.” True, but a deflection. “Tell me, is she everything TMZ likes to claim she is?”

“That depends. Should I believe everything the tabloids printed about you and your dad?”

Fury rose within, fists coiling tight around the wheel until she glanced his way—and noticed the crooked smirk and glint in his eye. He was toying with her, but lightly; sensing he’d pushed a button, he leaned back in his seat in deference.

_Easy, Veronica. Lamb wound you up, and you haven’t slept._

“Touché.”

His voice was softer now as he spoke. “Hey, it would be great for me if we didn’t start off trying to kick each other in the proverbial teeth.”

Tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, Veronica made a sharp turn into the precinct parking lot. “Or literally. I’d need a step stool to reach you,” she quipped.

“I could be persuaded to crouch. I believe in equity,” Logan insisted solemnly.

“I appreciate the offer, but as you’ve pointed out, we have eight days to make this transition work.” Swinging her Jetta into a vacant spot, she killed the engine. “I’m calling the shots. You understand that, right?”

“Of course. But—“

“For the next week, I want you to look, and I want you to listen. Got it?”

Logan visibly bristled as they exited the car, his shoulders tensed. “No disrespect, Lieutenant. I can tell you’re good at what you do. But I wasn’t snagging shoplifters at Abercrombie _._ I worked homicide for _five years.”_

_“Not here_ ,” Veronica insisted, depressing the lock button on her remote and walking away.

“I understand that,” Logan protested, hot on her heels.

Halting in her tracks, she spun around. “Great. For the next eight days, Detective, you’ll do well to remember that. Today, you’ll be in administrative hell. Welcome to the precinct.”

As she hurried inside and slammed through the door of the Women’s Washroom, she checked her phone, finding a text message waiting from her father.

**_Are you playing nice?_ **

Rolling her eyes, she tapped out a response: **_The day’s still early._**

Slumping to the floor in the stall, she buried her face in her hands and drew a shaky breath. _Eight more days and you’re free. Train the thankfully competent new detective, wrap up your paperwork, turn in your badge and never look back. You can do this._

“I can do this,” she lied to her reflection five minutes later as she splashed cool water on her face and fixed her hair.

Disbelieving eyes stared back at her in judgement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love your feedback in the comments below. I'm so eager to hear what you think of our homicide detectives.
> 
> See you soon...


	2. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your kind words so far. Our serial killer lurks... let's begin.
> 
> Note: for those unfamiliar with the movie Seven, I'll provide you with TW for any crime scenes which may be upsetting in some way. As with the movie, the crimes happen "off camera". It's about the sleuthing and the chase, not the gore. 
> 
> Lyrics quoted are from Albert Hammond's "It Never Rains In Southern California"

**Monday**

There wasn’t a point to setting an alarm, anymore. He was always awake before its incessant chirping, body jolting with a current of electricity. A storm that brewed within.

Lilly called them silent nightmares. No images, no screams—just the sense of a terror that _was_. Somehow, they were worse than the thrashing, flailing affairs of Logan’s youth.

Beside him, his cell phone managed a single cheep of a canned baby chicken before his deft fingers silenced it. Six in the morning. Captain Mars had him on days for this final week, and while most cops would love the perk, Logan hated it. He thrived beneath the cover of darkness, relished confronting the worst of humanity’s ills in the shadows. Between shadows, people were truest to themselves. In sunshine, the world lied. It smiled for the camera. It posed for the family portrait. It kept its appointments.

After midnight, the masks slipped away, and the monsters were sincere. Integrity mattered to him. If you were going to be a piece of shit, be upfront about it. 

Beside him, Lilly murmured in her sleep, hugging her pillow to her chest. Gently kissing the top of her head, he slid out from beneath the covers and managed a hurried shower before the shrill ringing of his work phone disturbed their morning respite. His towel hanging from his waist, Logan cursed beneath his breath as he wove between half-unpacked boxes and Lilly’s dirty clothes to snatch it from the dresser.

“Hello?”

A homicide. He snatched his notebook from the dresser drawer, scribbling down the address. Pride made him decline a pick-up from patrol. He’d find a way himself, in a city he didn’t fucking know, because Lieutenant Mars didn’t think he knew his head from his asshole. 

His eyes skirted the floor in search of his small suitcase—and the last of his unpacked underwear. A stirring beneath the sheets in his periphery drew a curse from his lips. 

“It’s too early,” Lilly protested.

Logan kissed her gently, caressing her cheek. “’Death waits for no man—and if he does, he doesn’t usually wait for very long.’ Zusak.” 

Lilly’s head lolled towards him, her honeyed waves splaying across satin. “Your pillow talk needs work, lover. But you’re pretty, so I’ll keep you around.”

“Well, I appreciate your generosity,” he replied, dressing quickly. 

“Was that your lieutenant?”

Circling around the bed, Logan snatched a tie off the door knob. “Dispatch. Meeting Veronica at the scene. Maybe she’ll let me do more than paperwork and I Spy.”

“Let you?” Lilly grinned, propping herself up on her elbow. “Sounds like she and I have something in common: we both know how to dominate you.”

“Lilz…”

“Or maybe, you could invite her over to play.” At Logan’s exasperated look, Lilly giggled. “Like we’ve never had a guest over to _eat_.”

“She’s my superior,” he insisted, ignoring the faint tugging in his groin. “And I’m late for work. You’re unpacking today, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Daddy Dearest and I have lunch at two, but since you’ve woken me at the crack of Fuck Right Off, I’ll get to work on this Jenga stack of our worldly possessions,” she acquiesced, gesturing around the room.

“And pick up your laundry, pretty please?” It was a running joke: Lilly had never met a floor she didn’t see fit to litter with her garments.

“Or I could just stop wearing clothing forever,” she proposed. “Think of the environment, Lo! All the water we’ll save! As a bonus, Celeste will positively _shit_ if I become a nudist.” 

“Leaving!”

“You _love_ me!” Lilly called down the hallway after him.

“I do!”

He did. He loved Lilly Kane because she was as emotionally scarred by her parents as he was. He loved her acerbic tongue and her fiercely protective heart. He loved her consistency, the way she was unabashedly in love with life. Her expectations were loyalty and a leonine lover who had her back in a bar fight. They trusted in their mutual dysfunctional and therein lay a comfortable arrangement.

Loving Lilly was easy. Safe. And who wouldn’t want to feel safe?

Shrugging on his trench coat, Logan locked the three deadbolts on their apartment door on his way out and requested an Uber.

* * *

Raining. Again.

There was an old song his mom loved, one of those songs she’d turn up if it came on the radio while they were driving alone; his father would never let her control a fucking thing in his car. But if it was the two of them, cruising the 101, she would smile in that wistful way and sing in her mezzo-soprano at the top of her lungs.

**_“It never rains in California  
But girl, don’t they warn ya  
It pours, man it pours…”_ **

The Golden State was the mask. This was the California he knew: a chill in the spine, endless tears.

_Why the hell did I move back here?_

A sharp honk of a horn signalled the arrival of a 2008 Jetta in jet black. Lieutenant Mars had arrived. Logan’s back straightened, the coffee cups in his hands mercifully still clinging to heat. He prayed his intel was sound.

Swinging her door open, Veronica was the picture of professional poise: her hair was drawn back into a neat French braid, her grey suit perfectly pressed in contrast to Logan’s slightly rumpled black slacks and absent jacket. He handed her the coffee in his left hand and she eyed it with a mixture of suspicion and disappointment.

“Coffee?”

“That’s nice of you, Echolls. Sincerely. But someone around the precinct should have warned you that I’m very particular about my caffeine—“

“Black with two and a half sugars? Please. You should see Lilly’s Starbucks order. She gives baristas nightmares.”

There it was: the tiniest half smile, crooking the corner of her mouth. “Not bad. You hit up my dad, didn’t you?”

She was impressed—not that she would dare admit it. But he knew it.

“There might be _a quick shake of vanilla powder_ in there, but I’m not confirming it, nor will I comment on the irony of your preference for Blonde Roast,” he teased.

Veronica’s lips parted as if to retort, but clamped shut as a patrol officer hurried down the steps of the low rise towards them. “Lieutenant Mars, we’ve been waiting.”

“Friedrich, this is Detective Echolls. He’s joined the unit,” she clarified, nodding to Logan. “Scene secured?”

“Of course. Just as you’d want it.”

“Perfect. Let me get my things. Echolls, follow me.”

The patrol cop stepped aside as Veronica headed for the rear of her Jetta. Logan followed closely, gulping his coffee in a desperate gambit to shake off the weariness in his bones. Veronica, too, chugged her cup of brew as she popped the trunk, revealing what could only be described as a one-woman cop slash forensics travelling road show.

Nitrile gloves. Maglites in several sizes. A backpack, its main compartment unzipped, revealing a bottle of Luminol and a baggie of swabs. Evidence collection bags, paper and plastic. A tub of black powder. Perhaps the most surprising was the digital SLR camera with a telescopic lens, tucked neatly in the rear alongside her jumper cables. 

_“I worked homicide for five years.”_

_“Not here.”_

Two words, pregnant with meaning. Staring down at Veronica’s gear, a picture was forming. An alarming one.

“Here you go.” Veronica tugged a pair of gloves from a box, passing them to him. “They’re large. I carry two sizes. Grab that Maglite, the one with the blue tape.”

Logan tucked the gloves in his coat pocket and obeyed. “Trick light for initiation? Amateur move, Lieutenant.”

Veronica huffed, shaking her head as she reached for a Maglite wrapped in red tape. “Blue, as in _borrowed_. _Nothing_ is amateur about me, Detective.” Slamming the trunk shut, Veronica sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “A bit more vanilla next time. A-minus. Best first try I’ve seen. FRIEDRICH!”

Beneath a nearby awning, the patrol officer snapped alert and pocketed his phone. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Take us to the scene.”

They followed Friedrich along an alleyway, its southern walls filled with faded gang tags and graffiti. The ground was strewn with trash and decaying yard debris, artifacts of lives carelessly discarded. Friedrich spoke with a blasé banter as he recited the basics: the victim was Duane Anders, age forty-seven; a call had come in regarding an _awful smell_ from the home; patrol had entered, finding the rear door ajar. 

“What time was death established?” Veronica asked.

“Like I said, I didn’t touch shit in that scene,” Friedrich scoffed. “But he’s had his face in a plate of spaghetti for forty-five minutes now, give or take.”

Logan rubbed his forehead, resisting the urge to shake the flippant fuckwit. They had a term for cops like this back in Boston: _scarecrows_. Guys you stuck in a uniform and threw out on the street, hoping the visual deterrence was enough, because they had very little brain.

“Hold up,” Logan pressed. “You don’t check a vic’s vitals? Crime scene 101.”

Friedrich paused at the garden gate of the residence, glaring at Logan. “Unless this guy’s converting marinara to H2-fucking-O, he ain’t breathing.”

Typical fucking patrol cop. _Bet you’ve flunked the Detective exam a few times, haven’t you?_

“So that’s how it’s done, huh?” Logan goaded.

“I beg your pardon, _Detective_ ,” Friedrich sneered, “but this guy’s been sitting in his own piss and shit. If he was alive, he would have stood the hell up by now to get away from that stench.”

A hand, firm upon his bicep, silenced Logan. _Veronica_. Her warning echoed in his mind, and he drew a steadying breath. 

“Fine. _Thank you_ ,” Logan spat bitterly.

As they approached the front entry of the bungalow house, Logan thrust his empty coffee cup into Friedrich’s hand, secretly amused by the patrol officer’s bewildered expression. _Trash for trash_. Veronica handed her cup to a technician, asking him to dispose of it. The technician complied quickly.

It was something Logan had picked up on at both scenes he’d attended with her. While cops were a mixed bag of sexist bullshit and begrudging respect, the forensics crews were affable with the accomplished Lieutenant. He admired it. It told him that Veronica Mars had similar instincts and values as an officer: evidence was paramount, and office politics were petty nonsense.

Veronica carefully pulled on her gloves as they stood on the weathered porch, speaking in a hushed tone. “What exactly was the point of that smart-assed display back there?”

Logan winced as he matched her actions. “The guy’s an idiot. Has he ever seen a body?”

Reaching into her side bag for her Maglite, Veronica sighed. “Look, Friedrich is a tool, but swinging your dick around and making enemies, especially in patrol? It’s not the way to get the job done here. Lesson one: learn to pick your battles. Now, come on.”

The first thing that struck him was the smell: rancid, foul and almost sickening-sweet. The smell of death was something that never got easy, nor did Logan want it to be such. A life was lost, ended before its time. There was a respect to offer, a price to pay if the job was to be done well.

The home was dimly lit, the foyer glowing beneath the jaundiced hue of a single yellow bulb, the globe of the fixture missing. Veronica swept her Maglite along the walls, studying a diploma and framed photos of a woman with grey, neatly curled hair in a modest blue dress. She gestured to the light switch beside the photo, shaking her head.

 _No lights_. _Wonderful_.

His thumb jammed the power switch of his flashlight as they moved into what appeared to be a living room. A large recliner chair was positioned directly in front of a wall-mounted flat screen TV, one arm slumped in a tell-tale sign the chair was broken. A loveseat in a hideous floral pattern, the fabric stained in a rainbow of colours, was kitty-corner from the TV. A tall shelving unit stood beside the sofa, filled with Precious Moments dolls, a creepy porcelain doll with an eerie resemblance to Logan’s father, and a framed photo of a heavy-set man and the woman from the hallway photo.

“The house that Archie Bunker forgot. Just add racism,” Logan quipped.

Veronica edged closer, staring at the photo on the shelf. “Oh shit, not this asshole…”

“You know the vic?”

“Not personally. You’re from California. Don’t you remember him? Jackass from the convenience store from that big bus crash in Neptune years ago. Took out six of my classmates.”

“I remember the crash…” Logan grimaced. “Wait a minute. The t-shirt peddler who wouldn’t shut up about St Christopher’s medals? That guy?”

“One and the same. Gave an interview to every station in the state.” Veronica shook her head sadly. “Well, on the bright side, he spent his days staring at ‘Welcome to Heaven, here’s your cleaning bucket’ girl here. What the hell is that?”

Logan shuddered at the figurine of an angel clutching a _Welcome to Heaven_ sign as a little girl stood beside a bucket, clutching a hankie. _Not that precious of a moment_ , he mused, following Veronica around a corner—and grinding to a halt.

He was expecting a body. Based on Friedrich’s blunt bullshit, he was expecting a scene that was… unpleasant.

Choking back bile as the thick stench of feces and tomato wafted towards him, he stared in disbelief at the morbidly obese man seated at the small dining room table in a tank top and boxers. As promised, his face was indeed planted in a plate of spaghetti with tomato sauce. A crack of light peered in from a boarded over window above the sink, the glass smashed out. His skin was pale, save the mottling of _livor mortis_ in his lower extremities. 

_He’s so big_ … _He barely fits on the chair…_

“Watch out for the roaches,” Veronica remarked calmly, casting her light at his feet.

“What?” Logan’s eyes skirted down and he cursed as dozens—no, hundreds of the disgusting bastards skittered by. “This makes the dorms at John Jay look like the Penthouse suite at the Grand. Jesus, what a mess.”

“And it’s our mess,” Veronica reminded him calmly.

 _Focus_. _What do you see?_

To his left, Logan noted a neat stack of tomato sauce cans on the pantry shelf. A cheap meal, if you were making minimum wage, but was this guy working anymore? His memory was vague, but this guy was pushing 400 pounds easy and the smarmy clerk he remembered from TV was definitely _not_ this heavy-set. The state of the house suggested someone who’d shut himself away to be forgotten.

He swept his light to the right, gagging as cockroaches scurried from a filthy pot atop the stove. “This is a homicide?”

“I got the same call you did: suspicious death, suspected homicide,” Veronica replied, casting her light upon the kitchen table.

“Well, who says this isn’t a heart attack? I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but it looks like Anders let himself go. Maybe he choked on guilt for profiteering off dead teens and shuffled off this mortal coil. A sad, slow, lonely suicide.”

“Karma is a bitch…” Veronica’s voice trailed off as she studied the body in profile. “But she didn’t act alone. Check it out.”

Logan moved beside her, following the bright beam of light to Anders’ lap. Nestled atop his bare thighs were his bloodied and bruised hands, bound tight with a nylon rope. Veronica whistled low, sweeping her light down to his ankles. They, too, were wrapped in that same thin rope.

Duane Anders was trussed up like a Christmas turkey. 

“Like I told you,” she murmured. “For the next week, look and listen.”

Rebuked and in search of redemption, he headed for the far side of the table, seeking a fresh perspective on the scene. His notebook in hand, he scribbled his initial observations: the faded wallpaper; the stacked cans of sauce, suddenly sinister; and the bindings on Anders’ limbs. From his years of sailing, Logan recognized the binding as being secured with a double constrictor knot—not an uncommon knot, but one that reflected a practiced hand. 

Flipping through a stack of overdue bills—most of which were payable to a Janice Anders—a nervous energy twitched through his limbs. He’d missed evidence— _important evidence_ —and fed into Veronica’s theory he wasn’t cut out for this job. He was better than this, and he needed to prove it.

 _Look for what’s not seen_.

Gripping the tablecloth, Logan lifted it a few inches, intrigued by a grey plastic container beneath the table. Crouching down, his vantage point afforded him a better view. _What the hell is that doing there?_

“There’s a bucket stashed under here.”

Veronica broke away from her examination of Anders’ skull, her expression one of curiosity. “A bucket? Anything in it?”

He ducked beneath the blue checkered tablecloth, peering over the rim. His eyes watered as the smell assailed him, evoking memories of frat house bathrooms at three in the morning. Squinting his eyes shut, he nearly fell on his ass in his hurry to escape that unmistakable stench of bile and sickly-sweet acid.

“Arrgh! It’s a pail of puke!”

Veronica rocked back on her heels, contemplative. “Any blood in it?”

“I didn’t stop to scrutinize the intestinal Pollock painting, but the museum’s still open for visitors.”

As he huffed hard out of each nostril, a voice whispered in the back of his head: _Was that worth impressing her?_

A trick question, given Veronica seemed mildly interested at best.

“Lieutenant Mars, we need to stop meeting like this.”

Logan oriented quickly to the intruding voice, eyeing the older male in a navy dress shirt and black slacks, a small black bag in hand. _Coroner_. They all had that same weird smile of greeting that reminded him of a children’s party clown on a bender—laughing through the misery of their days. He supposed gallows humor was the only way to cope with a career built around corpses.

“No time for love, Doctor Jones,” Veronica replied lightly, her lips curving into a smile.

Logan sensed this was a running joke between them, the camaraderie apparent as Jones maneuvered around her to examine Anders’ profile. “You got Forensics waiting on you, Princess. Don’t know if we’ll all fit in this cozy bungalow.”

“We’ll all fit,” Logan interjected, studying the space. “It’s the emo lighting that’s the problem in here. Detective Echolls,” he added, by way of introduction.

Jones nodded in his direction, opening his medical bag. “Welcome to the neighbourhood.”

“Let ‘em stew,” Veronica decided. “Good work takes time.” 

Logan approached them, mindful of Veronica’s directions: _look and listen_. He caught snippets of their whispered conversation: _bruising… binds… blood_. 

_This homicide brought to you by the letter ‘B’_ , he thought darkly.

“Detective Echolls, would you mind helping Friedrich canvass the neighbours? See if they heard or saw anything of value?”

Logan rocked back on his heels, glaring at Veronica. Canvassing was a demeaning task, the grunt work he’d left behind. Was she fucking serious? His silence drew her gaze from Anders’ skull, and the steely resolve left no room for argument.

It was an order, not a request.

“ _Fine_.”

Doctor Jones’ hand fisted in Anders’ hair, tugging his bloated face from its cushion of pasta. “Yup, he’s dead alrght.”

“Thanks, Doc. Send in Forensics on your way out, please,” she added as Logan stormed past them.

Jamming his notebook in his coat pocket, Logan crushed several cockroaches on the front stoop of the Anders residence for the release. His loafer smeared the residue along the concrete, leaving a slick, sickening sheen as he drew a steadying breath.

This had been a test, and he had failed.

* * *

Popping the trunk of her car, Veronica dug through her backpack in search of a protein bar, cursing the flavour choices. Why had she even _bought_ Lemon Zest? What was zesty about artificial lemon on oats? Who had she been trying to convince of her commitment to health by foregoing a strict assembly of S’mores and Caramel Fudge Brownie bars?

“Wu!” she called out across the lot. “You like lemon protein bars?”

The spatter technician wandered over, staring at the packaging. “Those are for women.”

“No, they’re _marketed_ for women and I’m charged extra for the exciting privilege. You want free food or not?”

Wu shrugged. “Gimme the bars.”

Scooping up the four offending bars, she thrust them into his waiting hands and continued ransacking her bag. “Good riddance... Praise Godiva, I can work with a Candy Cane Crunch.”

“Isn’t that from December?”

Veronica flashed the wrapper at him. “Yeah, but it expires in October. The gift that keeps on giving.”

“The herpes of protein bars,” Friedrich remarked, joining them. “How can you eat that shit, Mars?”

“Because it’s all I’ve had besides a bowl of steel-cut oats seven hours ago. Desperate times. Not desperate enough to give you my number, Friedrich, so don’t get any ideas,” she added quickly, earning a guffaw from Wu.

That asshole Friedrich had wanted in her pants since she’d joined the force. She’d rather fuck a rabid bear. 

“You’re gonna miss me at that fancy law school, Lieutenant. Don’t even deny it,” Friedrich insisted, heading for his cruiser.

“Tell me, Wu: do people miss cancer? Because if so, he may be right.”

Wu unwrapped a Lemon Zest bar and shook his head. “I am not getting in the middle of this. I still gotta work scenes with that egomaniac after this week. Thanks for the grub, Lieutenant.”

“No, thank you for removing that toxic garbage from the sanctity of my snack stash,” she replied, her voice trailing off as she caught sight of a rain-soaked and clearly seething Detective Echolls.

_Fuck. Time to face the music._

Kicking him from the scene had been an asshole move. She knew it when she did it, but she stood by it. There was a layer of micromanaging involved, of course: it was clear this was no ordinary murder, and she wanted to maintain focus, direct forensics and ensure the scene was handled with precision. 

There was another reason, a more pressing one. Standing in that kitchen, studying the posed corpse, the way the victim appeared to have been _fed to death_ … Looking at Echolls, not yet jaded, still believing he could _solve every case_ and _save the world_ … It reminded her of herself, before the cases of her youth irrevocably altered the fabric of her being.

It reminded her of Meg. And while she couldn’t protect Meg, she could shield Echolls from this case.

In hindsight, it wasn’t her decision to make. It was her father’s, and it was a position she could plead, should her theory about method of death prove true. But she’d made the call, and now, she’d deal with the angry glare of her trainee, who tossed his flashlight into her trunk without so much as a hello.

 _Well, this will be a fun ride to the morgue_.

Shutting the trunk, Veronica steeled herself for the drive ahead. Sliding into the driver’s seat and announcing their destination, she was met with only a terse nod of acknowledgement. 

_Silent treatment. Fun. I played this game with my ex, Echolls. I can wait you out._

A block away from their destination, he broke. “Look, I did my time on the beat. Badge on my belt says Detective, same as yours.” 

His voice was calm, measured. Sticking to facts, a tactic she could respect.

“Look Echolls, I made a call to preserve the integrity of the scene. My priority isn’t whether or not you feel like you’re getting enough time on the playing field. It’s justice for the victim.” 

Half of the story. She tapped her fingers on the wheel, hoping he’d accept the apologetic tone in her voice and let it go.

“Just… don’t jerk me around, alright? I’m here to work. I work hard at this job. I take it as seriously as you do.”

Veronica glanced over at him as she pulled into a parking spot. “I can see that.”

His features softened and she relaxed slightly. _He’s worried I think he’s an idiot. Crap._ While he was certainly green, he had good raw instincts. She needed to communicate clearer.

The basement corridor of the city morgue was painted a pale green that, when hit by the stark fluorescent lighting, lent an unearthly glow to the space. It reminded Veronica of this terrible industrial rave her friends had dragged her to in college in an abandoned soap factory, with crusted chemical residue on the walls and shooters in test tubes that only looked half-cleaned. It was begging for a haunting.

Angie Dahl was on duty today, and while Veronica found her pretentious, her work was beyond reproach. Her long brown hair was fastened in a neat high bun atop her head, her black scrubs slim-fitting to accent her curvy figure. She waved them into the examination room, where the naked and neatly sewn corpse of Duane Anders lay on a gurney. 

“Tiger balm over there if you need it,” Angie remarked casually as they entered, plopping a giant organ—a liver, perhaps—onto a scale.

Veronica went without it. She found the smell of the balm impossible to rid herself of later. She was impressed to see that Logan also disregarded the offer. 

“What do we know, Angie?”

“Well, he’s been dead a long time,” she began, scribbling a note on her clipboard. “And it wasn’t poison.”

“What is that?” Logan asked, gesturing to the organ.

“Would you believe a _kidney_?” At their surprised expressions, Angie nodded. “Guy’s organs are huge. Guy himself is huge. Took four orderlies to get him on the table. Five-oh-five on the scale.”

“That’s way bigger than he was in his shirt-shilling days,” Logan mused. “What happened to him?”

“Check this out.” Angie turned to another tray, awkwardly lifting a large sac. “Look at his stomach. See how it stretches out?”

Veronica studied the body before her, her mind racing. She felt it in the marrow of her bones. _This is bad. This isn’t right…_

“… And see here, in the cardiac orifice, where the food—“

“I’m sorry, I know some anatomy, but can you break it down a little simpler?” Logan asked.

Angie nodded, gesturing to his intestines on a tray beside her. “Okay, sure. He had lines of distention across his duodenum. You follow so far?” 

“Mmmhmm.”

Veronica was listening to Angie, but she was also studying Logan. Watching him work, observing his methods. Evaluating him for her father, who would need to mould him into the officer he needed for the unit. Logan was curious and eager. 

_I remember when I was eager to sink my teeth into a case…_

“…The interior walls are ripped open,” Angie told them.

“So Duane Anders ate until he burst,” Veronica concluded.

“Yes and no,” Angie replied. “He was hemorrhaging internally, and I found a hematoma in the rectum as well as one in the transverse abdominis musculature. I’m still pinpointing it.”

Logan whistled low, shaking his head. “Hell of a way to go.”

“What about these bruises here, Angie? On the skull?” 

Veronica waved her pen at a bruise she’d found of particular interest at the scene: a circular ring of purple, scant centimetres in diameter, centred in the back of Anders’ close-shaved head. A similar bruise, less prominent, marred his left temple.

“Not sure yet.”

“Barrel of a gun?”

Angie mulled this possibility. “Could be. Pressed flush to the skin with force for a prolonged period? Yeah, it definitely could be.”

Logan was beside her now, studying the bruising. His hand lifted, posed in a finger gun position. “Muzzle of a gun, pressed up against him. Forcing him to eat until he died… Homicide.”

Veronica grimaced. “Time to see the Captain.”

* * *

Her father was aging.

It was silly to suddenly realize it now, as if it had not been true prior to this moment. The man had lost his hair long ago, and the delicate lines of laughter from his many puns and goofy jokes were well-worn topography upon his lightly-tanned skin. Yet, as she and Logan entered his office an hour later, preliminary autopsy report in hand, it forced the air from her lungs.

 _Dad is getting older_.

Veronica shook herself slightly, blaming it on the end of her policing career and its nostalgic accoutrements. _Get it together_. _Focus on the case_. 

“Lieutenant,” Keith greeted warmly. “Detective Echolls. Learning a lot?”

“Yes, sir,” Logan replied immediately. 

Not a trace of sarcasm. Not a peep about his frustrations with being sent to knock on doors. Veronica appreciated Logan keeping that between them. Handing her father the Anders case file, she leaned against his book shelf, tapping the autopsy report against her thigh.

Keith flipped open the manila folder, holding up a glossy image of Anders posed at his kitchen table. “Run me through it, Mars.”

She quickly recapped the call received by dispatch, and patrol’s initial observations on the scene, before regaling her father with her immediate findings. Veronica made a point of spotlighting Logan’s bucket find, particularly since it played a role in Anders’ eventual death. From the periphery, she caught a flicker of a smile from the new hire, and knew she’d made amends.

“Duane Anders,” Keith mumbled, flipping through the file. “Publicity hound after the Neptune High bus crash. Hawked crash souvenirs until parents threatened a lawsuit. Lost his job at that convenience store.”

“Did he?”

“You don’t remember? Store sued him for defaming their reputation.” Keith slowly shuffled through the still frames of a life ended, pausing occasionally to tap his finger on a detail that caught his eye. “He won, since his boss clearly enjoyed profits from the souvenirs, but the five years in court financially ruined him. Had to move back in with his mother. Looks like he never moved back out…”

“Janice Anders,” Veronica muttered. “Of course.”

“Woman in the blue dress with the terrible taste in knick-knacks,” Logan chimed in. 

Keith leaned back in his chair, rubbing the top of his head. “Last I knew, she had lung cancer, and that was back in 2010, so…”

“Passed away five years ago,” Logan offered up. “Neighbours said that Anders had barely left the house since then. They’d tried to get him to come out, but he wasn’t interested. Left to grocery shop and buy video games.”

Sliding the photos inside the file, Keith closed the folder. “So Duane dies face-first in a plate of spaghetti. Tell me how it’s a homicide, aside from the muzzle bruising on the back of his skull.”

Veronica smirked. “Angie concurs with us on that bruise. Anders was forced to eat continuously. Obscene amounts of pasta. Multiple hematomas, internal distension and bruising. Remember the bucket Echolls found? If he threw up, he was forced to continue.”

Keith leaned forward, eyes widening. “So he was forced to eat himself to death?”

Veronica shook her head. “No, that’s what I thought, but not quite. Angie says the force-feeding went on for some time. Given Anders’ size, his stomach had capacity, so she estimates this carried on for twelve hours, maybe longer. His throat was swollen from the swallowing and vomiting. Based on bruising and signs of hypoxia, she believes he passed out at some point, possibly stopped breathing. That’s when the killer kicked him in the stomach. He burst, like an overinflated balloon.”

“Holy… I can’t say I cared for the man, but that’s sadistic.”

“Whatever happened to a simple drive-by when you dislike someone?” Logan quipped. “Highly effective in Boston. Hell, had someone try and take me out that way one time. I respected the directness, if not the cowardice.”

Veronica filed away this tidbit as a _conversation to have later_. “You don’t take the risk of a prolonged act like this unless it has meaning.”

“Or maybe someone tied to that bus crash decided to torture him,” Logan countered. “I remember those t-shirts. They were infuriating, and maybe a victim’s baby brother or sister grew up twisted. People are just sick sometimes, Lieutenant.”

Tossing the autopsy report on her father’s desk, she approached Logan, infuriated by his dismissive tone. “In the grocery bags beside the tomato sauce cans, we found _two receipts_. That means the killer stopped in the middle of everything, and risked Anders finding a way to get help while they went off to get more supplies. Because the act mattered.”

In a hushed whisper, Logan replied, “Maybe I’d know that if you hadn’t booted me from our scene.”

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck!_

Pivoting on her heel, she focused on the critical task at hand. “This is a beginning.”

“This is a single body,” her father protested weakly, his gaze averted.

“You know as well as I do that more are coming. Which is why I need to be reassigned.”

A chorus rang out: “What?”

“This can’t be my last case,” Veronica insisted. “It’s going to go on and on, and I refuse to hand it off midstream. And, may I speak freely?”

“Always,” Keith insisted.

Veronica steeled herself for the fallout as she continued: “This should not be his first case, either.”

“Are you kidding me?” Logan blurted out. “Captain, _may I speak freely_?”

Approaching her father’s desk, she leaned in close and whispered. “Dad, it’s too soon for him. He’s too much like Meg.”

“Hey, I’m right here in this office,” Logan protested angrily. “If you have a problem with me, you can say it to my face. I’ve worked five years in homicide in Boston. I’ve handled—“

Spinning around to find Logan directly behind her, she pressed her chest up against his and met his fiery gaze. “It’s too soon.”

Visibly unsettled, Logan took a step backwards, but did not look away. “Captain, clearly this is personal. If Lieutenant Mars isn’t interested in this case, I’m happy to work it. She’s halfway out the door, whatever. I’m committed and ready to work.”

“Are you questioning my commitment to this job now?” Veronica seethed. “You have _no idea_ —“

“Alright!” Keith rose to his feet, slapping his palms against his desk. “Mars, retirement or not, you are the most experienced and accomplished member of the unit and this is clearly not a typical homicide. Anders is yours until you turn in your badge.”

Veronica huffed angrily in defeat.

“As for you, Echolls, I will be assigning you to another file shortly. Something challenging, rest assured. Your work in Boston is not unrecognized, but do not question the accomplishments or position of a superior in this precinct ever again, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Logan mumbled. 

“Dismissed.”

Logan was the first out the door, to Veronica’s dismay. She preferred control of her exit. It also left her alone with her father, who clearly had more to say about the outburst between them. Mercifully, he left it at a pointed look as she snatched up the manila folder that would be the final albatross around her neck.

_Twenty minutes from now, I’m getting a mandatory dinner with Dad invite. Fantastic._

Stepping into the hallway, the bad news kept coming: Logan Echolls stood at the T-shaped junction ahead that led to her office, arms folded over his chest. Clearly, her father’s admonition had not satisfied the anger within him, and if Veronica were honest with herself, she would be furious if the roles were reversed.

“Looks like neither of us got what we wanted,” Logan observed. “You have a case you don’t want, and I’m off a case I’m interested in.”

“The Rolling Stones have a song for that,” Veronica retorted. “You’ll play it a lot in this line of work.”

She tried to move past him, but Logan shifted his body into her path. “Look, I don’t know what I did wrong, but I’ve put in my time. I _do know_ how to work a murder. I feel like… as a professional courtesy, the least you can do is explain why you think I can’t handle the Anders case.”

“ _Yet_ ,” she clarified, exhaling loudly. “Look Echolls, I can see you have tremendous potential. You’re sharper than tools like Lamb, thank God, or my father would be outright fucked when I leave. A straight-up case like the domestic you met me at yesterday? I’d say yeah, you work that. No problem.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but his brow furrowed deeper. “Then what is your problem with this case?”

“You’re not an idiot, Echolls. This is different. You can scoff at it being someone’s sick one-off torture game, but you feel it in your bones, don’t you? You feel the storm brewing. You hear it on the horizon, and you know that any minute now, the sky will crack open.”

He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledgement, but there was no denial. Perhaps his instincts weren’t as honed as hers. Perhaps her words were giving name to a feeling he’d pushed aside.

“You have _no_ idea what I’ve seen. Cases like this, they _change you_. Forever. Are you ready for that, Echolls? Truly ready?” With one final glance at his now worried face, Veronica shook her head sadly and pushed past him. “Point proven. Excuse me.”  
  
  
[Story Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/074NxDR14f9ZBfXlo8ZaAV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so curious to hear your thoughts on this one, as we merge VM and the world of Se7en. Reviews are fuel.
> 
> See you next Tuesday... (seeing the pattern, I hope?)


	3. Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day in our dark Se7en AU... what awaits our detectives? Let's find out.
> 
> A special note: this chapter was written a month ago and if a certain scene seems very a propos... well, all I can say is, "same as it ever was."
> 
> Lyrics quoted within are taken from  
> Tha Crossroads - Bone Thugs-N-Harmony  
> California Love - 2Pac

**Tuesday**  
  
The sharks were circling, churning the water. They smelled blood—and not just the three-foot pool of it seeping into the once pristine white carpet of the executive office of the Phoenix Land Trust.

Logan pushed past the throng of reporters pushing towards a small podium in the lobby of the corporate tower, where District Attorney Marcia Langdon was giving a statement. He ducked his head low, refusing to make eye contact, lest he be pinpointed as a potential talking head. If they caught his scent, that heady mix of _detective_ and _shiny new badge_ , they’d swarm him. It had happened on his first duty in Boston, a double homicide in the parking lot of an upscale restaurant. He’d made a slip, and the stupid sound bite had rolled for three humiliating days on the local news.

His Captain in Boston could barely find his sphincter with his head stuck in it. Captain Mars was not a man who would tolerate amateur errors.

“…I’ll answer questions for ten minutes, and ten minutes _only_. I have important work to do. If those questions do not come in a calm and orderly manner, this press conference ends,” Langdon instructed the packed crowd.

The sharks jostled, their maws wide and hungry for a meaty story as Langdon continued with her prepared statement.

As Logan rounded the corner to the elevator banks, a young reporter on the edge of the fray, her black hair in a high ponytail, began to give chase. Brisk, methodical steps, but soft; she wanted her prey to herself.

 _Fuck!_

“Detective! A word, please!”

“No comment,” he replied brusquely, relieved to be ushered by patrol into a waiting service elevator.

Captain Mars had given him little to go on, aside from _sensitive case_ and _high-profile_ , words clearly meant to soothe his bruised ego from the day before. As the door opened on the fifth floor, his stomach bottomed out. A gleaming bronze plate in the elevator lobby announced the sole occupant on the floor:

**_Phoenix Land Trust. CEO, Richard Casablancas._ **

It couldn’t be… But how many Casablancas families with a hard-on for real estate ventures lived in So-Cal? 

_Maybe it’s not… him_.

Drawing a steadying breath as he snapped on nitrile gloves, Logan pulled his notebook from his pocket, flipped to a fresh page and followed the sound of hushed chatter through the reception area to a large corner office. A patrol officer offered a terse greeting and handed him a baggie with a wallet inside. Extracted from the black leather folds was a California driver’s license, issued to Richard Casablancas. 

The jawline, that overly confident smile… he knew them well.

“Fuck,” Logan muttered.

“Someone must be holding a grudge over that REIT fiasco a decade ago,” the officer whispered. “A serious grudge…”

“Coroner been here?”

The officer flipped open his book, scanning the page. “Pronounced him at 5 past eight.”

“Thank you.”

He entered the office slowly, pausing to examine the scene in totality. Papers were scattered across Casablancas’ desk, his office chair dragged off to the far side of the mahogany furnishing. No other signs of potential struggle were apparent. 

Logan approached the body, positioned precisely in the centre of the expansive office. Naked except for his silk boxers, Richard Casablancas was crumpled on the plush carpet, as if he’d been kneeling before falling forward onto his face and palms. A brochure for his latest real estate investment, branded with a bloody palm print, was pinned beneath his left shoulder. His ashen skin sharply contrasted with the broad pool of blood surrounding him, its source a gaping wound in his right abdomen. 

Three feet to his right sat a gold-plated scale, reminiscent of the stereotypical scales of justice. On one side, a weighted block; on the other, a bloody mass that Logan was horrified to recognize as a piece of Casablancas’ stomach. A forensic technician was photographing an ornate dagger, slick with blood, beside Casablancas’ right hand. Circling around, he noticed the weight bore several _Oversized Baggage_ stickers. Most intriguing to Logan, they were clear forgeries printed by the killer: their white font on green and burgundy backgrounds were unlike any he’d encountered in his travels.

A TV was on across the room, the volume low. The news conference downstairs was tuned in. Marcia Langdon was assuring the public the investigation would be _the very definition of swift justice_. 

The sharks churned the water, eager for the chum tossed among them.

His mind drifted to his confrontation with Veronica the night before, her voice ringing in his ears as he stared down at the word _GREED_ painted in Casablancas’ blood on the plush white carpet: “ _Cases like this, they change you. Forever. Are you ready for that, Echolls? Truly ready?”_

Veronica was right. He was in way over his head.

* * *

Her fingers flew over the keys as Veronica glanced between the monitor and the images spread over the scuffed pine desk, her eyes itchy and dry. Not sleeping was taking its toll. She’d need to duck out at lunch and grab a bottle of Visine, soothe the sting of burning the proverbial candle at both ends.

 _Just a few more days_ , Veronica reassured herself as she annotated the pre-populated data from the incident report filed by Friedrich—which was unusually detailed. Either the guy was fascinated by the grisly death of Duane Anders, or his crush was at peak desperation levels again. Either way, _yuck_.

A soft knock upon her door stilled her hands, but she did not turn around. 

“Veronica?”

“Come in.”

She’d dodged dinner with her dad last night, citing a headache. She would choke down the bitter pill of consequence with dutiful remorse. Finishing her sentence, she hit save and swivelled in her chair.

“Have you heard the news?”

“Which news?”

Keith Mars cocked his head in disbelief. “Richard Casablancas was found dead in his office this morning. Murdered.”

“Big Dick is dead?” Veronica rocked back in her chair, whistling low. “Didn’t he just get out of the Penn a year ago?”

“Released early for good behaviour,” Keith replied, reaching for the stress ball on her desk as he perched on the end of it. “Someone bled him out. Wrote the word _GREED_ on the floor in his blood.” A beat. “I put Echolls on it.”

Her father leaned forward as he spoke, studying her closely. Gauging her reaction. _Oh Dad, don’t you understand by now? I’m just like you. I anticipate your moves. This is chess, and we’re both masters._ She fixed her expression in a neutral line and reached for her stone-cold coffee.

“Good for him.”

“Veronica, this is me you’re talking to.” Her father rose and shut the door, affording them privacy. “I can tell you’re not sleeping again…” 

_Damn._ She thought she’d done a decent job of concealing the frightening rings of deep purple encircling her bloodshot eyes, but maybe she needed to swing by Sephora and step up her product game. Pick up a colour-correcting kit or whatever the Instagram beauty brigade used to look like porcelain dolls.

“The way you went off yesterday… Honey, are you sure this is what you want? Quitting the force, going back to Stanford?”

The stress ball shifted from his left palm to his right and back. A rhythmic squeeze and pass. Hypnotic, intentionally. _Dad, I know your techniques. You taught them to me_. And yet, a part of her felt strangely comforted by the pendulum sway of the bright blue ball as it moved back and forth.

“I’m sure. It’s what’s best for me, and the force,” she insisted. “I’m gun-shy. That’s lethal in the field, and you can’t argue that. I love law, and I can use my years on the ground to inform my prosecutions when I become a DA. Win and win.”

“See, I don’t buy that, Veronica. For all of my misgivings, all my fears of you being hurt on the job after the close calls you had as a PI when you joined the force… You were made for this work. I don’t think you can deny that.”

Veronica averted her gaze, studying the crack in the tile beneath her desk. Over the years, it had widened, creating a tiny chasm between her chair and the broad leg of her desk. Her grief was like that: a fracture line between her and her father, incrementally widening into a chasm she feared would someday consume them.

“Meg wouldn’t blame you for what happened to her—“

“Not everything is about her, Dad!” Veronica snapped. “Or about you, for that matter. I have made a decision for _myself_. I want you to respect it. Sunday is my last day, end of story.”

She spun her chair around, turning her back on her father. Adamant he not see the tears that welled up in her eyes. She didn’t want his pity. It had suffocated her at Meg’s funeral, a slipknot around her throat.

“Alright, Veronica. Alright.” She heard him rise from the corner of her desk, his loafers softly crossing the floor. “I almost forgot,” he called out, padding closer once more. “Coroner found something for you.”

“Oh?” She feigned rubbing the bridge of her nose, dotting away her tears.

A strange noise, a rattling. Veronica glanced up, eyeing the tiny glass jar filled with coloured fragments in her father’s hand with confusion.

“Found them in Anders’ stomach, mixed in with his food. They were fed to him.”

Placing the vial on her desk, Keith Mars retreated, leaving Veronica with the evidence and her troubled thoughts—neither of which left her at ease.

At least she could do something about one of them.

* * *

Silent and abandoned, the Anders home was more decrepit and sad than she remembered.

Slitting the police seal on the front door with her pen knife, Veronica opened the door, wary of cockroaches and other insects. Bodies and their sundry wounds, not a problem. Creepy crawlies? Fuck ‘em. Not that she’d ever let it show. Like the sexist asses she worked with needed more fodder. 

A solitary spider scattered from the shadows and she pressed the toe of polished boot down hard upon it, crushing it into the porch’s weathered wood.

The portable floodlights remained _in situ_ , affording a moderate amount of lighting as she stood in the kitchen, shaking the vial of plastic bits like a maraca. Breathing in slowly, she scanned the space in sectors, studying each zone in search of their source.

_Where did you come from? What’s broken? What is the killer calling attention to?_

The cupboard doors were wood, the handles metallic. No dice. The countertops were also made of wood, ruling them out. A gloved hand tugged open every drawer in turn, finding no strange plastic objects of interest. 

_Tupperware, maybe?_

A search of the cupboards turned up none, oddly enough. _The refrigerator?_ Frustrated and a little frightened of what a killer might shove in a plastic container in cold temperatures, Veronica pulled open the door and reviewed the contents.

_Wow. This is more depressing than my college fridge._

Condiments, expired milk, a near-empty case of Diet Coke, a rotten package of bacon and a package of hot dogs. The remains of a life, on pitiful display. Veronica made a mental note to clean her own fridge out that night and moved to shut the door, pausing as the warm yellow light cast a strange shadow on the floor at her feet.

_Wait a minute…_

Lines. Gouges, now that she stared at them. Tiny slivers missing from the cheap, surely _plastic_ tiles beneath her feet. Five lines in all, they seemed to reflect motion.

_The fucking fridge!_

Seizing the aged appliance by its sides, Veronica shimmied it away from the wall, huffing angrily at its heft. It hummed loudly as it rocked to and fro, but mercifully did not tip and pin her beneath it. A good thing, since she hadn’t bothered to inform anyone of her field trip.

The pinned-up message caught her eye first: a standard index card, the kind she’d used for speeches in middle school. The killer’s penmanship was neat. This unnerved her, although why it did, she could not say.

**_Long is the way and hard  
that out of hell leads up to light._ **

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she gasped softly at the scrawl above it, smeared in what was some sort of oil or grease: _GLUTTONY_.

“Oh, shit…”

She was right. Why did she always have to be right?

* * *

Logan tapped the contact on the screen of his phone, weaving through the busy throng in the main entryway of the precinct and jogging up the steps to the Homicide Unit. The ringing in his ear did nothing to ease the fury over the verbal lashing DA Langdon had dished out at the office of the Phoenix Land Trust.

_“What do you mean, you have no leads? The media is crucifying me. I need you to clean this up, and quickly!”_

_“Funny enough, the killer didn’t pause to sign the guestbook at reception, and there’s twenty-five different prints in this office. It’s going to take time to do it right.”_

Pass the buck, lay the blame at someone else’s feet. Logan knew the game was rigged, but Langdon was consumed with her election campaign to the point of wilful blindness.

His call went to voicemail for the third time that day and he cursed beneath his breath. Leaning against a wall, he spoke in soft, soothing tones.

“Hey Dick, it’s me again. Check in with me, alright? I’m worried.” 

He ended the call abruptly as Veronica Mars hurried up the broad staircase. Her normally sleek hair was messy, with several strands tumbling free of her low ponytail to graze her cheeks. Her silk blouse was rolled up to the elbows and her right hand was clutching a tiny glass vial like a talisman. Her gaze was focused beyond him—no, _through him_ , whirring with a kaleidoscopic shifting of evidence and theory. He knew the look because he’d _felt that energy_.

_A break._

“Lieutenant?”

Veronica stumbled slightly, shaking her head in surprise. “Detective Echolls. Perfect! Follow me.”

“Where?”

“My dad’s office. No, _my office._ Your office now, I guess, or ours. A power position.”

She was rambling, the glass vial of hard, tiny bits rattling as she led him down the corridor. And while he was still stung by her actions the day before, the crackle of electricity as she brushed past him was enough to ignore that and keep pace. The sinking feeling he’d felt that morning, staring at the brutality in Casablancas’ office and knowing this was no ordinary crime, kept him quiet as she paged the Captain to her (their?) office and relentlessly paced while they waited.

The elder Mars was prompt, joining them minutes later. Logan’s gut told him Veronica had summoned him like this before. 

“Lieutenant, you asked to see me.”

“Both of you,” she clarified, placing the glass vial on the desk in front of Logan. “Plastic pieces, found by the coroner in the stomach of Duane Anders. Fed to him as part of his ritualistic murder.”

Logan grimaced, eyeing the white and blue shards. _No wonder the guy puked. Swallowing those inch-long chunks of… what is that?_

“I went back to the scene today in an attempt to identify the source of the plastic,” Veronica continued, retrieving her phone from her purse. “I found it: the cheap tiles of the kitchen floor. Specifically, the tile in front of the refrigerator. Neat little gouges. What do they make you think of, Detective Echolls?”

He studied the photo she held up, counting the lines and estimating their length. They ran parallel, evenly spaced, but not in alignment. If he squinted a little…

“He wants us to drag the fridge out.”

Veronica nodded, visibly pleased with his conclusion. “And that’s just what I did.”

Extracting a plastic bag from her purse, she passed it to her father. Contained within was what appeared to be a small piece of paper.

“ _Long is the way and hard that out of hell leads up to light_ ,” Keith Mars recited.

“ _Paradise Lost_ , Milton,” Logan reflexively named it. 

Veronica tilted her head askance. “You an English major, Echolls?”

“Just an affinity for my copy of Bartlett’s.” It was a quote he’d grown fond of during his emancipation from his father. 

“There was also a word written on the wall, probably in Crisco: _GLUTTONY_.” 

Veronica held up her phone for each of them in turn, the smeared letters sending a shiver down Logan’s spine. It was the same handwriting as the bloody message on the carpet of Phoenix Land Trust.

“This is a beginning,” she reiterated. “I told you before, and I’m telling you again. There are seven deadly sins. Gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, pride, lust and envy. Seven.”

Veronica stared pointedly at Logan, who nodded his agreement. They had a serial killer on the loose, one with a very particular vision.

The Captain whistled low, handing the message to Logan. “Lieutenant… are you certain?”

“How are you not?” she challenged, gathering her purse and jacket. “Captain, I can’t be involved in this. This is definitive now.”

“Hold on—“

Patting the Captain’s arm, Veronica smiled sweetly. “Hey, Echolls wanted Anders. Everybody wins. See you tonight for dinner, Pops.”

Logan stifled a grin as Keith blustered wordlessly, staring at his retreating daughter and Logan in turn.

“I’m all over it,” Logan enthused

Keith examined the office space with a weary sigh. “Guess we better squeeze a desk in here for you until she leaves.”

 _No more crowded bullpen, with the pus-and-onion breath of Jeff Ratner and Lamb’s shitty sexist jokes?_ Alright, he’d forgiven Veronica Mars, without reservation.

Vibration in his pocket startled Logan from his momentary celebration. Plucking his cell from his pocket and spotting the _Unknown Caller_ , he shrugged apologetically at Keith.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been waiting for this call.”

“No problem, I’ll see myself out… to find your desk.”

Swiping to accept the call, Logan sighed in relief. “Dick? Where are you?”

_“Dick? It’s good to see where your priorities lie, son. I had to find out from the TV news that you were living here again.”_

Ice water flooded his veins, his teeth chattering softly at the taunting voice on the line. He’d known this was an eventuality, but four days? Four _damn_ days? 

Logan nudged the office door shut with his foot, turning his back to the windowed door. “I don’t know how you got this number, but I suggest you lose it, _immediately._ ”

_“Is that really how this is going to be? You won’t even entertain the notion that a man can change.”_

“Men can change. But you’re no man,” Logan sneered. “A man doesn’t beat his wife until she needs a nose job. A man doesn’t forget his child’s food allergies and feed him shellfish, then chastise him for throwing up in his Mercedes on the way to the ER. All you are is an annual deposit to my trust fund, Aaron. A sperm donor.”

 _“So why are you back here then, Logan? After swearing you’d never return to California at the hearing, why are you practically in my backyard?”_ his father countered angrily. _“A part of you misses me, admit it. Admit you’re curious to talk to me, to see the changes I know Trina has told you about—”_

Logan laughed, a loud blast of disbelieving fury. This was how he knew nothing had changed: his father was still trying to control the narrative by playing his children against each other.

“We came back because Lilly missed her brother, and I was offered a great career opportunity. You didn’t even register as a blip on the radar. You should be used to that. Isn’t that how your career is, these days?” 

As his father sputtered a protest, Logan ended the call. It wouldn’t end his father’s games, but Aaron Echolls would never deign to redial. He would wait a prescribed amount of time for Logan to repent before a second assault.

He’d seen it play out hundreds of times in his childhood—not with words, but belts and fists. 

* * *

Music failed to unwind her. Silence was deafening as she burrowed beneath the duvet, hugging her pillow to her chest. Not even the unusually soothing tone of the _Forensic Files_ narrator worked (an unnerving, yet useful trick she’d picked up in university).

Insomnia was relentless in its pursuit, and Veronica was tired of running without purpose.

Tugging on her favourite pair of jeans and a worn black cashmere sweater, she grabbed her purse and keys. If she was wide awake at eleven, she might as well go somewhere useful: the reference library on Broadway 

Closed to the public after ten, Veronica had an all-access pass of sorts: a pass with a crown tattoo on his neck and a penchant for smart-assed remarks. A quick fifteen-minute drive and she was knocking on the side door, waving a bag of brownies from the bodega around the corner as a bribe. Behind the glass, the security concierge heaved an exaggerated sigh and pushed back from his desk to greet her.

“Building is closed, Miss,” he yelled through the door.

“Surely, you can make an exception,” Veronica cooed, waving her bag.

A waggle of his eyebrows and a smirk. “Anything magic about those brownies?”

“I’m a cop, what do you think?”

He flipped the lock on the door, chuckling softly. “I think you got the best green in the evidence locker, so it was worth a shot. Looking rough, Mars. Tough case?”

“I gotta get a new concealer,” she grumbled. “Is that any way to talk to a lady, Weevil?”

“That’s Officer Weevil to you. Seriously, you alright? Haven’t seen you look this low since… you know.”

“Last week on duty. Anniversary soon. I don’t know, maybe it’s adding up,” she confessed softly. “Got some research for a case I’m assisting on. You mind if I dig in?”

“Place is yours, Vee. You know that—as long as you pay the toll.” Weevil playfully snatched the bag from her hand, gesturing in front of him. “C’mon. Time for me to kick the grunt to the desk.”

Weevil radioed for another officer to man the concierge as they took the elevator to the expansive library on the third floor. She waved to the other guards at the reference desk, where a lively poker game was in progress, as usual. Weevil was dealt in, presumably replacing the guard he’d ordered downstairs. As supervisor of the night shift, it was his prerogative, not that any of his crew would mind. Most were former gang members and inmates, offered a second chance in a well-paying municipal post thanks to his advocacy. Few stayed long, but Felix had remained for five years and counting.

As Veronica descended the staircase to the research tables, she glanced up at the men, laughing and joking over the hum of music. “A wealth of knowledge at your fingertips and yet, you play seven card stud all night.”

“She saying we don’t have class, Weevs?” Felix challenged. “We got class, ‘Ronica!”

Veronica tilted her head askance, grinning. “Oh, do you?”

“You want some culture?” Weevil rose to his feet, scrolling through a phone connected to portable speakers. “I got your culture.”

It was their running joke: Veronica challenged and Weevil tried to make her laugh, or shock her. Tonight, it was a little of both, as N.W.A.’s “Fuck Tha Police” flooded the library. Felix and Hector hooted loudly as Veronica waved her hands wildly.

“Veto, veto! Come on, Weevil! A little respect?”

Snickering, he obliged. “What, you want some Justin Timberlake?”

“Play Despacito! White ladies love that shit,” Hector scoffed.

“Suddenly nostalgic for N.W.A.” Veronica pulled up the library’s catalogue on a computer terminal, keying in her search terms.

“Classic urban for our guest, boys, in honour of her last week as Lieutenant,” Weevil announced. “How’s this for culture?”

Veronica listened as harmonies filled the library, singing of judgment and God. “Eerily fitting for today’s research, Weevs. Thank you.”

**_“God bless you working on a plan to heaven_  
_Follow the lord all twenty-four-seven days, God is who we praise_  
_Even though the devil's all up in my face_  
_But he keeping me safe and in my place, say grace..”_ **

“And what you lookin’ into?””

Veronica startled, surprised to find Weevil standing behind her. “Heaven and hell,” she replied vaguely.

“You makin’ peace with your piece, Mars?”

“Something like that.” She threw in a title search for _Paradise Lost_ , noting its location.

Weevil leaned against the workstation, nodding thoughtfully. “I’m glad you’re getting out, Vee. You know me and my history with the boys and girls in blue ain’t the best, but you’re a good one. Sooner or later though, you all find yourself in that moment, pulling a trigger and it’s one you can’t make right. You getting out before that happens? It’s a good thing.”

“I agree.”

“Weevs! The cards are getting cold, man!” Hector yelled from upstairs.

“Take your time,” Weevil murmured, walking away.

For the next two hours, she fell into that familiar rhythm she loved. Keyword and title searches. The hunt through the stacks and the satisfaction of a book found. Her hand cramped as she propped books on the photocopier, snagging key passages and annotating them in her neat cursive. 

_Paradise Lost. The Divine Comedy. The Canterbury Tales. The Dictionary of Catholicism._ Every reference to the seven deadly sins she could find, she yanked from the stacks and pored over, using the internet to zero in on relevant pages. The end result was 15 pages and a list of references, addressed to Logan.

Yes, it was his case, as it should be. She was done in five— _four_ days, she amended as she noticed the time—and this was bound to be a lengthy, complex investigation. But Logan was still green, and her father had confided over dinner that Langdon was being particularly pushy. Not exactly comfortable footing for a detective wrestling with a complex murder file solo on a new beat.

If she could guide him a little, give him a hand… that was professional courtesy. It had nothing to do with the strange drive in her to protect him. Not one fucking bit.

Folding up her photocopies, she made her way up to the reference desk, where Felix was celebrating a winning poker hand.

“Checking out?” Hector asked.

“This is it, fellas. Last time you’ll see me around here. Gotta start bribing people at the Stanford library.” Nudging Weevil’s arm, she gestured to speakers. “Play me something special to walk out.”

Rolling his eyes, he reached for the phone. “Alright, but you’ll be back. You can’t keep your nose out of a book and that Stanford library ain’t got us.” 

_No, they don’t_. 

The music paused, then it hit: **_“California love!”_**

Veronica grinned. “Now _that’s_ a classic. Gentlemen, I’ll see myself out.”

“Take care of yourself, Vee.”

“You too.”

With a spring in her step, she cut through the east corridor, where a crash bar would take her to the side street where she’d parked. She didn’t ask, but she knew Weevil would watch her on camera until she was safely in her car. He was a good friend like that. 

From the library, it was another five-minute drive to the precinct, where she badged in and nodded to the desk duty officer before heading up to the office she would share with Logan for the rest of the week. An empty brown envelope was tugged from a mail tray en route, her papers slid inside.

Scrawling his name upon it, she dropped it on a second desk crammed into the small space and exhaled slowly. The envelope smiled knowingly at her.

Finally, she could sleep.  
  
[Story Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/074NxDR14f9ZBfXlo8ZaAV?si=zISfx3JISzCn7e-y8Kw-0w)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe out there. See you next Wednesday and please, show a little love in the comment box. Tell me your theories. Tell me you're okay, or not out there. I'm listening.


	4. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your kind words so far. I appreciate them so much. 
> 
> Note: movie Easter Egg coming up.
> 
> Don't forget to check out the story playlist, linked at the bottom of each chapter. It live updates each week.  
> (Newest additions: On The Outside; Wake Up)

**_Check out this beautiful fan art for the story - thank you so much!  
[Go show the artist love on Tumblr!](https://veronicamarsfanart.tumblr.com/post/619560675778412544/jenneens-jeanie205-casket4mytears)_  
  
  
  
  
Wednesday**

  
Three hours into Veronica’s quietly assigned homework and Logan was ready to dig up Chaucer’s remains and call him a pretentious prick.

“ _’Youre tale anoyeth al this compaignye. Swich talkyng is nat worth a boterflye.’_ Enough of this!” 

Tossing the book aside, Logan returned to Dante, which seemed to hold the most promise. It was an overt examination of the sins, complete with a map that Veronica had taken time to photocopy and annotate for him in delicate cursive. 

There was no sign of her yet in the precinct. He’d tossed the coffee he’d bought her an hour ago in defeat.

She was right about everything: the deeper meaning of the method of Anders’ demise; the imminent promise of further killings; the connection to the deadly sins. It was all here, laid out before him. What he lacked was the ability to name a suspect or predict his next victim—let alone the insight to understand the killer’s message.

“Something has to be here,” he muttered, flipping through the text. “There has to be a way to find this asshole.”

“Oh good, you got my message!”

Logan glanced up, tentatively smiling at a seemingly relaxed Veronica. Her hair was down today in loose waves that framed her face, and he cursed himself for noticing how complementary her blue blouse was. _Boss, jerk. She’s your boss._

“I did, thank you. This saved me a lot of leg work this morning.”

“Saved you a little more,” she chirped, waving a coffee in her left hand. “Almond milk, one sugar, shot of caramel. Dark roast.”

Logan’s eyes widened as he leaned back in his—crap, technically _her_ chair, since he’d settled in at the larger desk. “How did you—?”

“Always make friends with a barista. Also, you paid with your VIP card on Monday.” With a wink, she sat it down in front of him and moved to the smaller desk in the far corner. “You’d be surprised how lax stores are with their rewards programs. I’ve pulled key information from CVS that way.”

“Me too! There was this slew of thefts from college dorms we broke open through CVS ExtraCare. Gimme a second Mars, I’ll move over. I’m sorry, there was more room to spread out the case file and books on this desk.”

“It’s fine, keep working,” she insisted. “It’ll be your desk by the end of the week. I’m going to go through the filing cabinet this afternoon, anyway. Move things to central storage.” He hesitated, taking a step forward, and her hand shot up. “That’s an order, Detective,” she lightly rebuked him.

“Alright, but if you need the computer, or the desk, say so.” 

He sipped the coffee, marvelling at how it was _exactly_ how he liked it—including the shake of cinnamon, which she’d omitted from her rambling description. How had she known _that_ detail? Shaking his head, he returned to Dante and his florid exposition on the Gluttonous. 

On the corner of the desk, a phone trilled loudly. And again.

“Um…”

Yanking open the top drawer of the filing cabinet, Veronica chuckled. “Package deal. Comes with the desk.”

Grabbing the receiver, he tucked it between his chin and shoulder. “Echolls.”

_“Ah, there you are, lover!”_

“Lilly? Everything okay? Did he call again?”

His father had managed to scrape up Lilly’s number, in addition to his own. Had called her the night before, insisting she talk sense into Logan. The string of profanities Lilly had unleashed was astonishing and _should_ have put an end to that bizarre strategy, but his father had already proven dogged in his pursuit.

_“No, and if he did, Daddy would have Clarence at his house in twenty minutes to speak with him. I have a proposition.”_

Cupping his hand over the receiver and leaning forward, Logan lowered his voice. “The line is recorded.”

_“Um, no shit! It’s not for YOU. Pass me to your Lieutenant.”_

“No way. Why?”

_“Trust me, babe. How long have we been together?”_

“Too long.” 

From behind him, Logan heard Veronica quietly snicker. Clearly, she’d picked up on at least the gist of the conversation and was thoroughly enjoying his misery. In which case, why not have a little company?

_“Please? Prettiest of pleases?”_

“Fine.” Spinning in his chair, Logan thrust the phone in Veronica’s direction. “Lilly Kane would like to speak with you.”

Her brow furrowed as she gingerly accepted the receiver, mouthing _why?_ Logan shrugged, as baffled as she was. She gawked at the phone as if it were an alien race, until the two of them heard Lilly shouting over the line.

_“I’m waiting!”_

Logan laughed heartily as Veronica pressed the receiver to her ear and greeted Lilly. Every once in a while, the spoiled rich girl spilled out of his girlfriend, and that foot stomping, demanding, _don’t you know who I am_ sass would take over. He loved to mock her for it. To Veronica’s credit, she offered not a hint of apology for keeping Lilly waiting, although she seemed rather…. _puzzled_ by whatever Lilly was saying.

“Yes… Yes, he has… Oh, I’m afraid I couldn’t… Well, if you’re certain—I see. You know what? In that case, who am I to decline?” Veronica smirked, leaning against the desk. “Absolutely. Hmm… Okay… I will… Thank you, Lilly.”

She handed him the phone and returned to her filing, without a word of explanation. To his horror, Logan found nothing but a dial tone waiting for him.

_Oh Lilly, what are you up to?_

“Care to fill me in?”

Dropping a stack of file folders on the corner desk, Veronica exhaled loudly. “Whew! Those are heavy!”

Great. First Lilly, and now Veronica. They were two of a kind. Pushing off the ground, he slid his chair across the room, pinning Veronica against the wall. Her eyebrows raised in surprise, a half-smile crooking her lips.

“Veronica, what did Lilly say?”

“I don’t know why you’re so upset. Inviting me over to eat dinner was your idea. That’s what she told me.”

Logan grimaced as he massaged his temples. “What exactly did she ask you? She invited you over to dinner, or to _eat_?”

Veronica laughed, kicking his chair—and him—across the room. “Oh my God, she told me you’d say that! I didn’t believe her but… Jesus, you’re turning redder than the cherries on my car.”

“She meant _food_ , right?” Logan reached for his cell phone, tapping out a furious text. “I’m so sorry. Lilly has no sense of boundaries with her jokes.”

“Echolls, yes, she meant _food_. She asked me to come over for some deluxe catering and the best her dad’s wine cellar had to offer.” Still laughing, she settled in at the tiny desk. “We’re expected by six-thirty.”

His cell phone buzzed. One new message, from Lilly.

_She and I are going to be great friends. See you tonight!_

* * *

The first thing that struck Veronica about Logan and Lilly’s apartment was its modesty. There were plenty of condos in the city, nestled in nicer neighbourhoods, but they’d chosen a home just six blocks from her own comfortable apartment near Chinatown. 

Lilly Kane threw open the door before they’d reached apartment 6A, rushing into the hall to kiss Logan on the cheek. “I missed you! And this must be the famous Lieutenant Mars I have heard so much about.”

“None of it’s true,” Veronica deadpanned. “Unless it’s positive. And even then, it’s probably not true.”

“Lilly Kane. Most of what you’ve heard is true, except for fucking Justin Bieber. He wishes.” She embraced Veronica warmly, as if they were old friends. “Come inside, get comfortable. Don’t mind the mess, it’s totally my fault for being lazy.”

Veronica followed the software heiress inside, admiring the casual cool of her red floral wrap dress, the high neck lending a classic elegance to the garment. Lilly’s blonde hair was swept up into a messy bun, with scattered tendrils tumbling free along her neck and beside her cheeks. She could model, if she wanted to, but Veronica sensed that posing on command would bore her.

The living room was furnished with a black leather sofa and loveseat, a large flat-screen TV and an entertainment stand housing several gaming consoles. A bookshelf brimmed with literature and photography tomes, along with photographs of Lilly, Logan and people she presumed were family. Noticeably absent: movie star Aaron Echolls. A stunning painting of a harbour at sunset featured on a wall. A small stack of boxes were jammed in a far corner where living room met dining room.

Logan excused himself to change and Veronica shrugged off her suit jacket, dangling it in the air. “Where would you like me to hang this?”

Lilly scoffed. “Please, we have no class. Toss it on the loveseat for now, unless you care, in which case I _think_ I finally put hangers in the front closet? Lo, are there hangers in the front closet?”

“A few!” Logan shouted back.

“Take your pick,” Lilly insisted. “Dinner will be plated in five. Wine okay, or are you sober?”

“A glass with dinner would be wonderful, thank you.” Veronica draped her jacket on the loveseat and picked up a framed photo: Lilly and Logan at the Statue of Liberty, Logan jamming an ice cream cone into Lilly’s cheek as she laughed in shock. “How long have you two been together?”

“Oh my God, twelve years?” Lilly lined up three glasses on the dining room table and poured red wine carefully into each. “We met at Times Square, as cliché as that is. I’d lost my brother and he’d been wandering around, people watching. My phone was dead and I asked to use his. We ditched my brother and grabbed lunch.”

“A liquid lunch,” Logan clarified, entering the room in a black dress shirt and khakis. “Margaritas.”

“And nachos! Sustenance was acquired,” Lilly insisted, giggling.

“We realized we had a lot in common and traded numbers. After three months of being friends, it became the chaos you see before you.” Logan circled the table, kissing Lilly’s cheek. “Dinner smells great. Want me to serve?”

“Thanks, babe. Veronica, grab a seat. One teeny request, though?” Lilly made a finger gun, then threw it over her shoulder.

_The gun._ Yeah, Veronica wasn’t a fan of them these days, but it was a part of the job. Removing her holster, she feigned tossing it through the TV before tucking it neatly inside her purse. 

“He’s been a cop for years, but I still can’t get used to them,” Lilly admitted sheepishly.

“Don’t feel bad,” Veronica reassured her. “I lose it before dinner at my home, too.”

Dinner fell into a surprisingly relaxed and light-hearted rhythm, despite the rocky start she and Logan had gotten off to. Away from work, Logan was quick-witted, ready with a pun or a wry observation, while Lilly was boisterous and bore no filter. What she felt, she spoke, and she meant what she said. Between them, Veronica sensed a fierce bond from a shared distaste for their respective families and their abuse of their wealth to control the lives of others—in Lilly’s case, her brother, who’d struggled with his mental health and had been forcibly medicated into a stupor, rather than be permitted to seek therapy. 

“And don’t get me wrong, he still takes medication. Medication is good for people who need it. But now he’s not a freaking zombie. He’s _happy_ and engaged, working at a non-profit which is pissing off Celeste. I love it.” Lilly drained her wine glass and pushed away her empty plate. “Let your kids live their lives and they fucking _thrive_!”

“Like us,” Logan agreed.

Lilly leaned forward, eyes twinkling with mischief. “So Veronica, unless I’m reading the lack of ring wrong, why aren’t you married?”

“LILLY!”

Veronica felt her cheeks grow hot. “It’s fine, Logan. She can ask the question.” She took a long sip of her wine, adding, “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

“Oh, come on! We’re all friends at this table, Veronica Mars! You’re a successful bad-ass cop, you’re funny, and you’re intelligent. You’re a _catch_!” Lilly pouted, ignoring Logan’s hand of caution on her arm. “Hell, if I were single, I’d pick you up at the bar.”

Logan’s hand clamped over his girlfriend’s mouth. “Lillian Kane…”

“I came close once,” Veronica admitted, running her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “One time, it was close… It didn’t work out.”

“You don’t have to say a word more,” Logan soothed.

“You know what? I don’t mind. I just… haven’t thought about it.” She met his worried gaze and forced a small smile. “Norris and I went to high school together. We dated casually back then, but we didn’t start dating seriously until I left university and decided to become a cop. Norris was in the academy too, doing the same. We reconnected and were seeing each other for five years. In the end… we wanted different things in life. Irreconcilable differences. He’s a deputy in Neptune. Good guy, though. You ever need a favour from Balboa County, call him. Drop my name. He’ll be good to you.”

A long moment of silence passed, Veronica’s head bowed. Norris’ broken heart weighed heavily on her still. The engagement ring he’d bought her, glimmering in the sunlight. The decision that had torn them apart, even as fate ripped it from their hands. She hoped he was happy with Hannah, his new girlfriend according to his social media posts. He deserved it.

Lilly’s hand reached across the table, squeezing hers. “If anyone ever needed molten lava cake, it’s you. Dessert time!”

Veronica reciprocated, managing a smile. “Hell yeah.”

* * *

It was past ten when Lilly excused herself for the evening, hugging Veronica tightly and stealing her phone number for future Girls’ Nights. Logan listened for the bedroom door’s closure, watching Veronica sway softly to the music on the radio while unfolding her suit jacket. She was leaving now, and while he should _let her_ , because she owed him _nothing_ , the brimming folders waiting for him in the corner of the room tightened their stranglehold on his throat and she was his last gasp of air.

“I need your help, Veronica.”

She turned around slowly, tilting her head askance. “What do you mean?”

“I’m missing something. Something important, I know it. I’ve read the books, and I’m staring at these files. There’s something in there, some hint to the next killing, but I can’t find it….” He slumped on the couch, fidgeting with a throw pillow. “You were right. I’m in over my head.”

“No, you’re not.” She settled onto the couch beside him, her head cupped in her hands, elbows resting on her thighs. “This case is… I haven’t seen anything quite like it. No one should be working it alone.”

“So why’s the Captain got me working solo?”

“Because everyone else is an idiot and he knows I’ll cave and help you. Go get the files,” she instructed him. “We’ve got four days together, Echolls. Make ‘em count.”

They spread out the Casablancas file first, Logan reasoning Veronica had a grasp on the Anders case and didn’t need the refresher. He walked her through the scene, still frame by still frame: the world _GREED_ in blood on the carpet; the scales, balancing a pound of weight against a literal pound of flesh, cut from the man’s side; and the utter lack of fingerprint, blood or DNA evidence recovered that had been unaccounted for by office employees to date.

“Body was found early Tuesday morning,” Logan explained. “Office was closed early on Mondays every week. We figure the guy snuck in, took his time with him. Was there all night. Now, see this picture?” Logan passed her a crime scene photo. “He’s bound, same constrictor knots as Anders. Only his right arm’s still got some slack to move.”

“To use the knife,” Veronica concluded. “To choose where to make the cut for the pound of flesh. I’m assuming that weight is indeed a pound?”

Logan nodded. “We found a note by the scale…” He shuffled through his file, searching for the photocopy. “Ah! Here it is. _‘One pound of flesh, no more, no less. No cartilage, no bone, but only flesh. This task done and he would go free.’_ Shakespeare.”

Veronica reached for the photo, tapping it against her knee. “He holds a gun to Casablancas, a man who did time for defrauding investors out of millions, and says, ‘Alright, you owe a pound of flesh. But _you choose the pound_.’ Lets him agonize over where to cut. Makes him use the dagger… Counts on his greedy instinct to attempt to cut it all at once, because the shock to the body and the blood loss will kill him.”

“Whereas if he’d mutilated himself in small pieces, he may have survived, according to the coroner,” Logan affirmed. “Although whether he’d want to…”

Veronica stood up slowly and began to pace. “These killings, they’re not just killings. You know this. He’s preaching.”

“He’s punishing people for their sins,” Logan countered. “Gluttony, greed…”

Her brow furrowed as she gathered her hair at the nape of her neck, twisting it loosely. “Hmm, no. Not quite that simple. The seven deadly sins and the seven virtues were used in medieval sermons.”

“Like the Parson’s Tale, you mean. Or in Dante’s work. Although Pride’s the first terrace in Dante, isn’t it? I’ve got the map you photocopied somewhere…”

“It’s Pride,” she affirmed, “but I don’t think this guy’s being strictly by the book. He’s definitely inspired by these texts, but he’s twisted them.”

Veronica kneeled beside him, reaching for a picture of Richard Casablancas collapsed over a stack of real estate brochures. Her arm stretched across the table, flipping open the Anders file to reveal an image of the man seated at his kitchen table, bound and face-first in a plate of congealed pasta.

“The sermons were about atonement,” Veronica told him. “Encouraging people to get right with God. These acts… they’re attrition.”

Logan’s eyes widened. “The killer sticks a gun in their faces and demands they pay for a sin. They aren’t atoning because there’s no real remorse.”

“Now you see it.” Sitting aside the photos, Veronica frowned. “No fingerprints, no DNA… what’s the fun of something this elaborate unless you _want_ to be found? There has to be a clue, either to the killer or the next victim…”

“Wait, maybe there’s one thing.” Shuffling through the stack of photos, he passed her an image from the Casablancas scene. “It’s his son, Dick. He wasn’t in town when it happened. Confirmed it with CCTV from the resort where he was staying.”

Logan still felt sick whenever he looked at it: the framed photo of Dick from his Hearst College graduation, bloody circles traced around his eyes. He’d presumed it was a warning of some kind. Maybe Dick had seen the killer somewhere without knowing it? 

“A threat perhaps? Something he’s seen?”

“That’s what I figured. Took me a day to track him down, but I put him in protective custody.”

Veronica gasped. “What if it’s not something he’s seen? What if it’s something Dick _would see_?”

Staring down at the nauseating images and jumbled paperwork, Logan shook his head in disbelief. Could it possibly be that simple? Had he misread a clue and lost a day’s lead on the killer?

“Then I better drag this file over to Dick’s place. Tonight.”

“We,” Veronica amended. “We’ll take my car.”

They made quick work of packing up the file, Veronica grabbing her jacket and purse and following behind him. Logan gave her the address for Dick’s beach house, where he’d insisted on staying, adamant his security was better than any police safe house. Logan wouldn’t admit it to him, but it was likely true. All the same, an officer was assigned to him 24-7 as a precaution.

“Full disclosure: Dick Casablancas and I are friends,” Logan blurted out as Veronica pulled out of the parking lot.

“Full disclosure: Dick Casablancas was an asshole to me in high school,” Veronica replied. “Does my dad know?”

“Yes, and he said it was fine since Dick was independently cleared of involvement for now. If I found any sign he had a motive, I was to turn the case over immediately.”

Veronica made a right hand turn and accelerated. “How do you know Dick?”

“We met in Australia. After I got my trust fund, I took a surfing trip up the Gold Coast, and met him there. We hung out a few mornings, shooting the shit about waves and boards, and eventually, we figured out we had a lot in common.” 

Logan hesitated, torn about whether or not to lay himself bare. Vulnerability was preyed upon in his world, exploited and used for personal gain. Veronica didn’t strike him as that kind of person, and in fairness, he knew more than she surely would want him to.

“I was coping with my mother’s swan dive off the Golden Gate bridge,” he blurted out impulsively. “She’d left behind a slew of recordings as ammunition to prove my father was an abusive monster in case of her death. Gee thanks mom, but I’d rather have you, not a recording and a bank account with annual residual deposits.”

“Oh, Logan…” 

“Dick’s dad had just bailed for places without extradition treaties, and his mom was too busy with her replacement family to give a shit, so we were both abandoned and blowing through trust funds. Kindred spirits. We made a plan to surf every year and kept in touch.”

He stole a glance at Veronica, who was gripping the wheel tightly. “The next year, Dick was a wreck. His brother was dead. Suicide jump after the bus crash… He and I were talking about that yesterday. You didn’t tell me the other day that you and Captain Mars solved that case.”

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” Veronica murmured.

Logan sat in silence, observing as Veronica absently rubbed her right tricep as they waited as a stop light. Did he dare ask her?

“You were the blonde on the roof that night, weren’t you? The one Cassidy tried to shoot?”

A small nod. _Fuck._

“How old were you?”

“Eighteen.” It was scarcely a whisper.

Logan sat with that a moment. “We all grew up too fast, didn’t we?”

“Some cases change you forever.”

The officer on duty greeted them at the beach house, directing them to park in the rear of the home. With its three stories and expansive rear porch, complete with gazebo and hot tub extension, the teal and white house was a posh place for a police protective custody detail. 

Veronica hesitated, reluctant to leave the confines of her Jetta until Logan patted her arm.

“Hey… Dick won’t say anything.”

Veronica’s fingertips toyed with her keys, still dangling from the ignition. “Still, maybe I’ll just wait here.”

“Look, if I know Dick, he’s too drunk to remember his middle name by this time of night. This errand we’re on could be a bust. But it’s up to you.”

A long moment passed before Logan heard her mutter incoherently under her breath—something about _days_ —and her fist closed around the keys. Yanking them free, she nodded.

“Fine, let’s go.”

Logan led the way inside, heading through the main entrance and past the formal living room to where he suspected Dick would be: the den, where the projection screen and Playstation were set up. It was also where Logan recalled a small bar in the corner. 

Sure enough, there he was: shirtless, red-eyed, surrounded by a pile of crumpled tissues and ten empty beer bottles, an open forty of Jack next to a two-litre of Coke on the coffee table. Dick’s fingers aggressively mashed buttons as he played Mortal Kombat… poorly. 

“Logan! Hey, hey dude, grab a controller.”

“He’s a mess,” Veronica murmured sympathetically.

“He’s an orphan,” Logan whispered. “Hey, Dick. In a sec, man. Got some business to take care of first.”

Dick blew raspberries at him, shaking his head vigorously. “No business after hours. NO, BAD GIRL! PUNCH HIM. Yeah, that’s it. Take him down! GIRL POWER!”

_Jesus, he’s wasted._ “Tell you what,” Logan propositioned. “I beat you next round, we talk business real quick. You beat me, no business tonight.”

Veronica nodded enthusiastically as Dick got his ass handed to him by the AI player. She saw the writing on the wall as clearly as Logan did.

“YES! But I get to be Chun-Li, bro. Only I play Chun-Li in this house. Hey, we have company!” Dick staggered to his feet, eyeing Veronica up and down with a bemused expression. “Holy shit, is that Veronica Mars?”

If Veronica was uncomfortable at being recognized, she’d buried it behind a casual smile. “In the flesh. Good to see you, Dick.”

“Damn girl! Your boobs got bigger.”

Logan’s arm slammed across Dick’s chest in warning, but clearly, there was no need. Veronica didn’t miss a beat.

“So did yours,” she quipped. 

Dick roared with laughter, slapping Logan on the back. “She’s cool. I didn’t know you and Ronnie were buds.”

“The game, Dick? I’m waiting to kick your ass,” Logan taunted lightly.

Controllers were retrieved, Logan selected Ryu (his go-to when Dick was spamming with Chun-Li) and the game began.

“This is Sparta!” Dick hollered, swigging what Logan assumed was Jack and Coke from the large soda bottle.

Logan defeated him in ninety seconds. He was going easy on him too, which spoke to Dick’s utter inebriation, since his friend was a competitive gamer when sober. Veronica hung in the back of the room, quietly amused.

“Not cool, Logan, not cool,” Dick muttered.

“Alright, Dick, listen up.” Logan turned off the TV and faced his friend. “I think I have a lead on catching the asshole who killed your dad, but I need your help to sort the lead out. Can you help me catch him, Dick?”

Dick slumped to the floor, leaning back against the couch. He rubbed his bleary eyes, fighting back tears.

“Fuck, man. I can barely tell time right now.”

“I know. I _know_ …”

A loud sniffle. “Worse than when Beav took the long walk off the roof of the Grand, y’know?”

“I know, but the killer needs to pay. We need to make him pay, don’t we?” Logan waved Veronica over, taking the case file from her. “I’m your friend, right?”

“Yeah, bro… yeah, you are.” 

“I wouldn’t ask you for anything right now if it wasn’t important. I’d be here getting shitfaced with you, pouring one out for Big Dick.”

Dick considered this carefully, then took a swig of his spiked Coke. “What do I gotta do?”

Logan glanced up at Veronica. She smiled encouragingly. _You got this_ , she mouthed.

“You know that fucked up photo of you with the bloody eyes? We think the killer meant there was something in the office that you would see, that no one else would notice. I want to show you the photos we took. You won’t be able to see your dad. Just… if anything’s weird, or there’s something out of place, just tell me.”

He’d prepped the photos in the car with Post-Its, carefully concealing the body. Choosing as many photos as possible with no body at all. Hoping to spare his friend the horrors his job brought with it. Dick made a grabbing motion and Logan reluctantly passed him the first image.

The tears fell immediately.

“Fuck… There’s so much blood!”

“I know, Dick. I’m so sorry.”

Dick glared at him angrily. “What am I gonna see here? I’m not a cop! I’m not even smart! I barely got my degree in Biz Admin.”

Logan gestured to the desk in the background. “Is the desk in the right place? Is there anything on it that isn’t usually there?”

“Yeah, there’s _blood_!”

“Maybe he’s too upset, Logan,” Veronica cautioned.

Dick shuffled to another photo, grimacing at the bloody _GREED_ on the carpet. “So what if he was greedy? Jeff Bezos is greedy and people still want their fucking Prime memberships and their quick crap shipped to their door. He wasn’t perfect but he was my dad!”

“Dick, we can do this another time. I’m sorry, Veronica’s right—“

“Fuck this killer, dude! He’s no better than my dad. My dad screwed people for money. He _butchered_ somebody!” Dick shuffled angrily to another image. “The tabloids said that he hacked a piece of my dad off him and stuck it on a scale. Are you _kidding me_?”

Logan reached for the stack of photos, rubbing Dick’s shoulder. “You’re right. You’re right. C’mon, we’ll do this another day.”

“Hey… Hey, no, wait a sec. This one… You said weird shit, or like, wrong things, right?”

Veronica stepped closer, leaning over the back of the couch. “Yes, we did. Is something wrong in that photo, Dick?”

“Uh, yeah. This painting’s upside down, Ronnie.”

Logan studied the photo in Dick’s hands. It was an image of a large painting in the office hung over a filing cabinet. It was an abstract expressionist piece, featuring multiple colours and strange shapes and blobs. 

“You’re sure about this, Dick? I mean, this looks alright to me and I’m not an arts major. Neither are you.”

Dick shook his head vigorously. “I know _this_ painting. My hottie ex-stepmom Kendall bought that painting and Dad made me look at it every time I swung by to sponge money off him for ten years. The blue blob doo-hickey goes at the top left because it makes the whole thing look like a fat Chihuahua hitting a bong.” Dick spun the photo around and held it up. “See?”

Veronica snorted behind them and Logan fought a grin. With Dick’s description… it _did_ kind of look like a tiny dog next to a glass bong. _Only Dick would interpret it this way._ But thanks to his stoner mind, they had their clue. 

“This is incredibly helpful, Dick,” Veronica chimed in. “Thank you so much.”

“Seriously, thank you,” Logan echoed, gathering up the case file. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Take it easy on the booze, alright?”

“Whatever, grandpa!”

“He’ll be fine,” Logan assured Veronica quietly as they departed.

A backwards glance revealed Dick had screwed the cap on his Coke bottle and crawled onto the couch, his eyes already shut. He’d sleep it off, like he always did. Logan would have the posted officer outside check him every hour, just in case.

* * *

The faint scent of iron hung in the air as they entered Richard Casablancas’ office. Blood left its mark, ran deeper than most people understood. Logan was intimately acquainted with this truth. He’d slept on a pillow stained from a bloodied nose for two weeks when he was ten. That rusty scent haunted his slumber, shaping his dreamscape.

He pointed to the western wall as he flipped the light switch. “Painting’s over there.”

Veronica entered the room slowly, surveying the remains of a once chaotic scene. The scale was gone, as were the stacked real estate magazines. The body had been taken away. Several items were bagged and removed as evidence. And yet, Veronica lingered in the centre of the office, staring down where once a pound of a man’s body offset a heavy weight. 

_She’s seeing it in her head_ , Logan realized, his jaw falling slack. _She’s recreating it from the pictures…_

Veronica’s gaze drifted to several areas in turn, pausing in silent reflection, before her attention zeroed in on the painting. She studied it closely, leaning in to examine the frame.

“I doubt he was stupid enough to leave prints on the frame, but let’s glove up.”

Her backpack of gear, draped over her left shoulder, was swung to the carpet. She passed Logan a pair of gloves, donning a pair of her own. Together, they gently lifted the painting free of its hooks and lowered it to the ground. Logan eagerly examined the wall behind it, stunned to find nothing but pristine eggshell white paint.

_Damn it!_

“He moved the screws to re-hang it,” Veronica observed, tapping the back of the frame. “See?”

“At least we know Dick was right about it being upside down,” Logan grumbled. “I really thought there would be a message on the wall, like with Anders.”

“There’s something here,” Veronica insisted. “It’s the _what_ that we’re missing.”

Sliding her fingers inside her boot, Veronica extracted a folding knife. With a swift motion of her thumb, the blade was exposed and she slashed the back of the painting open in neat, precise lines. Logan held the painting steady as she tore the brown paper away, revealing… more nothing.

“He’s fucking with us, Mars. And he didn’t even buy me dinner first.”

He stomped across the room, feeling the need to stare out the window, to know a world still existed beyond this _fucking case_ and this infuriating bastard who clearly took joy in mocking them at every turn. The streets below were barren, save a scattering of cars and the soft glow of traffic lights. The distant hills were dotted with signs of life from canyon homes. People blissfully unaware of a monster lurking among them, judging them and playing God when it suited some sick need.

A rustling noise and a curse behind him shattered his reverie. Turning around, he was stunned to find Veronica wielding a brush with long, sweeping bristles and a small canister of what appeared to be Tang. With the finesse of Picasso, she gently swept the barren wall where the painting once was.

“What are you doing?”

“Testing a theory. I already tried UV light and it wasn’t semen or saliva, but _something_ is on the wall… _Holy shit_. Come see this.”

Logan hurried back to her side, studying the orange smear. It was difficult to make out, but if he squinted, he could almost make out a looping pattern.

“Are those fingerprints?”

“Battle Lite, side pouch,” Veronica barked.

Logan complied, retrieving what appeared to be a mini flashlight. He’d seen these before, usually in the hands of forensics teams. Why did Veronica have one?

“Shine it on the powder. If I’m right…”

Logan cast a beam of light across the Tang-like dust, gasping as it fluoresced neon orange—and revealed a clear fingerprint on the wall. Veronica hummed triumphantly and reached for her phone, calling dispatch for an urgent fingerprint analysis team as Logan shook his head in disbelief.

_We found it. We found a lead._

As Veronica disconnected the call, Logan gestured to the canister of powder and her backpack of gear. “What is that radioactive dust and why do you have it? Don’t tell me it’s standard issue, because I know that’s bullshit.”

“Fluorescent dusting powder for latents. I swiped it off a Forensics tech I used to date,” Veronica replied coyly. “Look, he trained me on how to use it properly! I haven’t screwed up the scene.”

“I know you wouldn’t do that. Just… Is there anything you don’t do?”

“Dunk a basketball,” Veronica replied sweetly. “But I have a wicked serve in volleyball.”

Logan smirked despite himself, silently realizing that in another life, one where she wasn’t retiring in four days, he would want a partner like Veronica Mars.

_How does a cop this dedicated, this intelligent and insightful, walk away from the job? What happened to you, Veronica? Why are you leaving this behind?_

It wasn’t passion for the profession—that much he could see. It wasn’t a lack of accolades or aptitude. It wasn’t a lack of support; it was obvious Captain Mars desperately wanted her to stay. Something had happened on the job, Logan reasoned as Veronica called her father and provided an update. A case that had _changed her forever_.

A knock on the glass door twenty minutes later signalled the arrival of the fingerprint technician and Logan ushered them in, explaining their findings. She seemed slightly annoyed at their amateur printing until she caught sight of Veronica, at which point she sighed deeply in understanding and began sorting through her gear.

Five minutes. Five minutes of dusting with more Tang, and quickly-mounted lights situated above and below where the painting wound have sat. It was all it took to shake Logan to his core. 

As he stood beside an equally bewildered Veronica, he leaned close and whispered, “Tell me honestly: have you ever seen anything like this?”

“No,” she murmured. “Not like this…”

Neatly framed by twin bars of light, glowing a brilliant shade of fiery orange, slender fingers spelled out the words _HELP ME_ on the once pristine wall of the Phoenix Land Trust.  
  
[Story Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/074NxDR14f9ZBfXlo8ZaAV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear your thoughts, theories, anything at all. I hope you're all safe and well. See you next Thursday...


	5. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another installment of our serial killer movie crossover! 
> 
> This chapter and the next deliver a lot of moments I really love in this story, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it. 
> 
> Our playlist has a few new additions, including a song someone is singing in the shower (Paint It Black if you're wondering). Playlist link as always at the end of the chapter. Hounds is very Veronica as a song this week.
> 
> Let's begin...

**Thursday  
**

Veronica’s legs kicked beneath the cool silk sheets as she clutched a pillow tightly against her chest.

_“We’re sorry to bother you. We’ve had calls tonight about a disturbance. Is everything okay?”_

_Meg’s voice is gentle, her pale blue eyes softening at the dishevelled sight of the woman before her. In the background, they hear a child crying, loud hiccupping sobs._

_“A disturbance? What, you mean a sick baby? If people are gonna be bothered by a sick baby, they can come take a goddamn turn at rocking and soothing her. Let me get some damn sleep!” the woman muttered wearily._

_“We understand this is frustrating. It’s our job to conduct a welfare check when people are concerned—“_

_The woman spins towards Veronica, her brown eyes almost black. Her auburn hair is tangled atop her head in a messy bun, her nightgown stained with what appears to be dried blood._

_“Oh, they’re concerned about my welfare, huh? More like they’re concerned about their own damn sleep. They don’t care about me!”_

_Veronica has a strange feeling. A sick feeling. Something’s not right here. But Meg pushes on, insists if they can see the baby, they’ll be on their way. The woman rolls her eyes and stomps her foot, but agrees. They follow her to the tiny living room, where a pizza box lies open with half-eaten crusts inside. Three empty beer bottles are strewn on the floor._

_“See? She’s had an ear ache since Thursday night. Been wailing from the fever all day.”_

“Not again,” Veronica muttered, turning in her sleep.

_“We’re sorry to disturb you. Do you have a pediatrician?”_

_Meg is walking down the hallway. She hears a sound. Veronica misses it, too busy rattling off the details of a free health clinic. Trying to be a good person. Trying to help the woman, because she says no one cares about her welfare. No one cares._

_A body hits the ground with a dull thud and Veronica draws her weapon…_

“NO!”

The sheets were soaked in sweat, cold and stuck to her clammy legs as she angrily kicked them away. Gasping for air, Veronica blinked away the tears that blinded her and spilled down her cheeks. Would the nightmares ever _fucking_ stop? Or was this her life now? Every year, a torture porn film festival, watching one of her only friends die while she foolishly stood by…

_Fuck this. Tomorrow, I take the Ambien._

On the bright side, she’d made it to five-thirty. On the downside, she’d gone to bed at one, so _whoop-dee-fucking-doo._

Reaching for her phone, she placed a quick call to the precinct, confirming what she suspected: the prints on the wall of Casablancas’ office were neither his nor Anders’, and they were still running them through the database. 

_“This ain’t CSI, Lieutenant. If we don’t get a hit, we’re gonna have to send them out to each State_. _”_

Veronica knew there would be a hit. These prints were left to be found, which meant their killer knew their worth. But _why_? 

Coffee. She was going to need a ton of coffee. And perhaps a plate of sugar. 

* * *

Risky Ricky’s had a stupid name, but the diner was two convenient blocks from the precinct and happened to serve the best Belgian waffles in the city. After a scalding shower to rinse away the residue of her restless night, Veronica had called Logan, offering to drive him in—with a detour for breakfast. Judging from his bleary eyes and grunted greeting as he slid into the passenger seat, he was in similarly rough shape.

Well into their respective second cups of coffee, Veronica had perked up enough to carry a conversation, as had her… trainee? Protégé? Temporary partner?

“Why breakfast?” Logan queried, ripping open a packet of sugar. “Not that I’m complaining. Options at home were dwindling down to Frosted Flakes and overripe bananas.”

“Do you still shop like you’re at John Jay?” Veronica teased, sipping her coffee. “Because college ended years ago. There’s this thing called adulting.”

“Says the one who lives off protein bars jammed in her trunk,” Logan scoffed.

“Breakfast is a waste of energy! I’ll have you know I make amazing dinners.” 

Logan eyed her skeptically as the waitress returned with their food. “Amazing, huh?”

“Yes, amazing. As in, it’s amazing how I turned that bag of pasta, half a jar of old pesto and pre-cooked chicken strips into something edible. Thanks, Caroline.”

The petite redhead smiled, leaving Veronica to her waffles heaped with fresh whipped cream and strawberries, and Logan to his Denver omelette with hash browns and fruit salad. Veronica eagerly popped a bite in her mouth, savouring the buttery richness. _I’m gonna miss this place_.

“You deflected.” Logan waved his fork at her with a grin. “Why breakfast?”

“Because we got off to a shitty start,” Veronica admitted, swooping a strawberry through cream. “That’s on me and my personal drama. We also may be spinning our wheels for a few hours, waiting on those prints, but when they hit… It’s going to be a long day. And we did not get enough sleep for a long day on an empty stomach.”

Logan thoughtfully chewed a bite of his omelette and swallowed. “You think we’ll get a hit?”

“I know it. But we’re not talking shop here. It spoils the berry waffle bliss.” 

Veronica rammed another large bite in her mouth, humming happily. This had been the right call. She needed this brief respite from the darkness in her life. 

Simple pleasures mattered. Meg had taught her that.

Logan reached for his coffee, a curious smirk curving his lips. “Alright, if work’s off limits, how about a game?”

“Depends on the game.”

“A little game Lilly and I invented when we met. It’s called the Rule of Three. We take turns choosing a topic, and each of us has to list off three answers relating to it. No lying, no omissions, even if they’re embarrassing. Topics can’t be too heavy… at least, not in the beginner round,” Logan added with a wink.

Veronica was half done with her waffles, and thoroughly caffeinated. _Game on_.

“Let’s play. I’ll even let you choose first.”

“How generous!”

“I just want to eat my waffles,” Veronica admitted, earning a chuckle from him.

“Alright, got a nice opener: three things you associate with feeling loved.”

“That’s an opener?!” Veronica dropped her fork, rubbing her forehead. “Love as in…”

“Any kind,” Logan clarified.

“Oh! That’s easier…” Leaning back in her chair, Veronica closed her eyes and smiled. “The smell of bacon cooking on Sundays when I was little. My father’s smile when he jokes, ‘Who’s your daddy?’ and I say, ‘You are’. And… guilt-free kisses before brushing your teeth in the morning.”

She opened her eyes, startled by the intensity of Logan’s gaze. Her hand fidgeted with her napkin as she raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“The smell of chocolate chip cookies baking,” Logan began. “Driving on the 101 with the Oldies station playing… and wanting to leave the lights on.”

 _Why would he worry about leaving the lights on? His body is incredible!_ As soon as the thought arrived, she hated herself for it. _Inappropriate, much? He’s a co-worker and he’s TAKEN!_

“Your turn to choose,” Logan gently reminded her.

“Hmm… Three objects you would rescue if your house was on fire. Objects. People are all outside.”

He rubbed his hand over his short hair as he contemplated her prompt. “My grandfather’s lighter… The photo of my mother and me on my bookshelf… and the photo of Lilly and me from the mantel.”

“Me, I’d grab my scrapbook, my external drive, and the teddy bear I’ve had since I was two.”

“So she has a soft side,” Logan gently teased.

Veronica leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. “Please don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation as the precinct pariah to protect.”

“My lips are sealed,” Logan promised solemnly.

Veronica’s pocket vibrated as Logan’s phone clattered on the table. Each of them reached for the devices in turn, both acutely aware of the potential implications. Swiping to unlock, Veronica read the waiting message from her father.

 _Got a hit on the prints and you’re not going to believe who it is. Get here, NOW_.

“You were right,” Logan announced, signalling for their check.

“Shoulda made you put money on it. Law school’s expensive,” Veronica quipped.

“In that case, breakfast is courtesy of the Echolls Family Trust.” At Veronica’s protests, Logan laughed. “Veronica, please. I’m a millionaire, and you helped break this case open last night. Let me buy you the fucking waffles, alright?”

Swallowing down her questions about his finances and why the hell he’d want to make himself miserable with this career path, Veronica threw up her hands.

“Fine! But I’m buying next time.”

Throwing down a wad of bills, Logan smiled widely. “Deal.”

* * *

Her father was right: she didn’t believe it.

“This can’t be right,” she muttered, snatching the report away.

“Had it verified manually, kiddo.”

“But this asshole’s been in the wind for ten years! Ever since he lost in a landslide to Alicia Fennel.” Veronica handed the results to Logan, unable to look at the mug shot a moment longer. “Still can’t believe he was never prosecuted.”

“No one was willing—or alive—to come forward and testify,” Keith lamented. 

Logan dropped the page on Keith’s desk, shaking his head. “You can’t be serious. This guy?”

“We have an address, too. Dive apartment on the west end, roach trap where no one asks questions. Suit up, you two. Tactical rolls out in ten.”

“He’d be the biggest roach of them all,” Veronica muttered, checking her firearm.

Logan was frowning now, his long legs carrying him in a slow, wide circle around the captain’s office. The rigidity of his arms, the way he softly bit his lip… Veronica was unnerved.

“What is it, Echolls?”

“There wasn’t a connection before,” he murmured. “Anders, Big Dick. Kinda random. But now…”

 _Oh. Oh shit._ Logan was right. There was a glaring, neon connection now. A seventeen year-old boy, standing on the roof of the Neptune Grand, jamming a Taser into Veronica’s ribcage and urging her to do him a favour and walk the plank, like a good little pirate. Bragging about the bus crash he’d made happen, to silence victims of sexual abuse who might just reveal he was a victim too.

“Where’s Dick?”

“Still under guard,” Logan assured her.

“Maybe we keep it that way.” Holstering her weapon, Veronica drew a steadying breath and exhaled. “Alright, let’s go get Woody Goodman.”

They took her car, refusing to ride in the SWAT truck as her father preferred. She did agree to wearing body armour, remembering Goodman’s fondness for hunting wild game, although she sensed this time he was likely the prey.

 _Lust_ , she reasoned. _The unholiest of lusts. Sick bastard._

She would rule out nothing, of course. Perhaps Woody was their suspect, taunting them to his booby-trapped lair. _Sinners, aren’t we all_. She would be ready for that possibility. She would never rule anything out again, not after what happened to Meg. But there was a gnawing in her gut, tiny gnashing rat teeth tearing her away, strip by tiny strip, to the truth in her marrow.

This killer wanted Goodman found, because Goodman was another goddamn tableau. Another sermon for the collection.

“You don’t think he’s our perp either, do you?”

Veronica took a hard right turn on a red, ignoring a honk behind her. “Get out of my head, Echolls.”

“Don’t have to be in there. You’re a loud thinker.” Logan’s fingertips drummed on the window pane beside him. “What’s his motive, besides revenge?”

“That’s my problem with it. Our guy seems to have a deeper purpose. One Goodman fits best as a dish served cold on a slab at the morgue.”

Swerving around a garbage truck to keep pace, Veronica pulled in behind the SWAT vehicle and shot a sideways glance at Logan.

“You ready for this?”

With a grin, Logan threw open the passenger door. “Fuck no. But that’s never stopped me before. _‘You’ve got to bumble forward into the unknown.’_ Frank Gehry.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Do you quote your Bartlett’s to Lilly when you fuck? Or do you just break out John Mayer lyrics?”

“Do you think of me fucking Lilly? Because she would _love that_.” Logan waggled his eyebrows as they stood outside, waiting for SWAT to assemble their gear. “And in answer to your question, no. My mouth is occupied.”

“You two gonna get a room, or can we go nail this motherfucker?” Lamb interrupted, stepping between them.

“And why are you here? We asked for competent professionals, not professional incompetence,” Veronica snapped.

“Daddy Mars asked me to tag along with SWAT. If you don’t like it Princess, you can choke on my—“

Lamb choked on the sentence as his back slammed against the door of the building. Logan’s forearm pressed against his throat, squeezing it all but shut as he loomed over the now shuddering detective.

“Hey, Detective Lamb, right? Detective Echolls. I work here now. And in my world, we show a Lieutenant _respect_. We show _women_ respect. If I hear you forget your manners again, the only one choking on anything will be you choking on my fist. Understood?”

Lamb nodded, his cheeks a deep shade of plum as Logan released his hold. Furious but frightened of a second encounter, he brushed his vest off and rejoined the SWAT team behind them.

“You didn’t have to do that. I could have handled him.”

Logan nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, but you’ve been handling him for years, haven’t you? Take the week off. My retirement gift to you.”

“We’re ready to go, Lieutenant,” the commander announced behind them.

Veronica gave her assent and the team moved into action, clearing the building floor by floor, covering all escape routes until they reached the third floor. The address they’d located for Goodman put him in unit 306, and it was towards that one-bedroom apartment they converged now. All stairwells were secured, all exits sealed. There would be no escape, for Goodman _or_ any company who might be lurking.

Logan pressed forward, gun drawn, but an overeager SWAT shithead shoved him aside. “SWAT before Dicks!” he preened, pulling rank.

Was he right? Technically. Was he a jerk? Unequivocally.

“Let the bastard be the canary in this coal mine,” Veronica whispered to Logan.

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but he was still visibly rankled. _Welcome to the west coast, Echolls. We’re always second class around here to some pretentious prick with a shiny vest._

They stood aside, snapping on gloves as two SWAT officers swung a battering ram through the door and a flurry of activity ensued. A barrage of noise, cocked weapons and shouts, combat boots stomping across worn, creaky wood.

“Police!”

“Clear!”

Banging doors slammed against walls as rooms were searched. Lamb’s head poked out of the apartment and he begrudgingly waved them in at the commander’s orders. The front of the apartment had been cleared, with the unit swiftly moving through the two bedrooms in the rear, they were informed.

As they entered the derelict apartment, the first thing that struck Veronica was the smell: mothballs and a weird tinny cherry scent, like stale candy in a shop. If she were to venture a guess, standing in the musty living room and studying the cobweb-coated furniture, she’d presume the windows of the apartment hadn’t been opened in months. The air was stale, and left a nasty taste on her tongue. She kept her mouth closed as she walked through to the small kitchenette.

“We sure Goodman even lives here?” Logan murmured.

“Something isn’t right,” she quietly agreed.

Strung up along the ceiling, she found the source of the tinned cherry scent: air fresheners. The little pine tree ones for cars that hung off the rear view mirror. Hell, she used to have one in her old Le Baron in high school for a while. She cast her light upwards and Logan read off the labels. 

“Black Cherry… Cool Pine… Summer Breeze… What the _fuck_?”

Down the hall, a SWAT officer yelled out: “Clear!”

She opened the fridge door, finding it barren. The cupboards, too, were empty. It was as if Goodman had never been here at all. A terrible thought crossed her mind: _Is this where he brings his prey?_

“Maybe this isn’t where he lives,” she suggested to Logan. “But somewhere he comes when he needs privacy.”

Logan grimaced. “This is a neighbourhood where no one asks questions. No one would call the cops here—“

“DICKS! DICKS, YOU BETTER GET IN HERE!”

They circled out of the kitchenette, down a darkened hallway. The ceiling was jammed with dangling air fresheners—Veronica couldn’t count them all, but a quick estimate told her there were hundreds—in a rainbow of colours. As she moved towards the rear bedroom, the stale scent of candy blended with something rancid and her heart began to race.

The fake forest held a dark secret.

“Found him beneath a sheet,” the commander explained. “Haven’t touched anything else… What the _hell_ is this shit?”

Tentatively, Veronica entered the room, noticing it was semi-divided. The space was likely three bedrooms once, with two smaller rooms converted into one by knocking a third of a wall out to create a doorway. The front half, sparsely decorated with a chair and dresser, was littered with air freshener wrappers on the floor that crinkled and crunched as she and Logan cautiously walked. He pushed aside the myriad of offending pine trees as he moved, their number so mighty that they’d been hung in two tiers of height. 

In the back room stood an IV pole next to a single bed, its wooden four-poster frame plain aside from the leather straps leading to what Veronica assumed were once the legs of a man.

Assumed, because where flesh remained, it was a mess mired in pus and purple-black rot. To her horror, she swore she could see muscle clear through the desiccated tissue. His ribcage was prominent, his hip bones jutting. The form was positively skeletal, a wasted shell of what was once alive. Logan moved to her right, rifling through a cardboard box beside the bed as she studied the large black letters on the wall above it.

 _SLOTH_.

“Call an ambulance,” Logan ordered.

“More like a hearse,” Lamb snarked.

She’d known Woody Goodman in life, had met him several times. Staring at the emaciated, decaying face before her, eyes blindfolded, the scraggly curls spewing from the skull… it was difficult to see the resemblance, but she was almost certain it was indeed the man who’d molested years of Little League players, driving one to murder to keep his shame secret forever.

“Look at this, Mars,” Logan called out. “Urine sample, a stool sample, blood… and these.”

She turned away from the gruesome remains, noticing the stack of Polaroids in Logan’s hand. “Pictures?”

“This one’s from three days ago.” He flashed the first image at her and she felt her stomach drop. “They keep going… there’s so many. And this one’s the first.”

She reached for the photo, shaking her head. It was Woody Goodman, strapped to the bed before them. The date on the bottom of the image was precisely one year ago.

“He’s laughing at us,” she lamented.

Logan slid his hand inside a manila envelope, pulling out a stack of glossy paper. “Oh God, Mars… there’s more pictures. Goddamn it, take these. I can’t look at them.”

He thrust the stills at her, backing away in visible disgust. A quick glance at the image of the terrified young boy and the caption— _Lucky_ —told her all she needed to know about what awaited her in the pile. Sliding them carefully back inside the envelope, she tossed them angrily inside the box.

“That’s enough of that,” she declared loudly, her hands shuddering violently.

In her mind, she heard the voice of Marcos Oliveres on a recording, urging Cassidy Casablancas to come forward: _“He’s sick! What he did to us was wrong. We were just kids.”_

SWAT had cleared out, understanding the chain of command, but Lamb had lingered, a wolf in their macho clothing. Hovering, being useless, swinging around his assault rifle like it made him a big man. 

“Lamb, why don’t you go see where Forensics is at?” she suggested.

“I don’t answer to you today.” He loudly chewed a wad of gum, smirking. “Check the vest.”

“Oh, so you’re SWAT? Then that means you still answer to me, since Dicks trump SWAT when there’s a homicide. Get lost.” _Idiot_ , she added silently.

“Fine.” Leaning over Woody Goodman’s body, Lamb shook his head in disgust. “You got what you deserved.”

As lightning cracked the sky beyond Goodman’s window, Veronica’s world inverted.

Goodman’s body began to spasm on the bed, his mouth spewing panicked pleas without language. Lamb staggered backwards, tripping over his own feet and falling on his ass as Veronica stood at the foot of the bed and stared in disbelief.

_No, it can’t be possible…_

“He’s alive!” Lamb shrieked. “That fucker’s alive!”

_His skin is eaten away by decay! How is he alive?_

As Logan rushed to Goodman’s side to assess him, Veronica spun on her heel. “Guns down! Get an ambulance, now! RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”

Her mind flickered to the roof of the Neptune Grand, her gun drawn on Cassidy as he stepped onto the ledge of the roof and asked her what reason he possibly had to live. She’d hesitated, her adrenaline surging, her body sore from the Taser hit she’d taken and her mind reeling from the knowledge he’d killed a bus full of classmates to keep his abuse from the world.

 _“That’s what I thought,_ ” he’d mumbled sadly, stepping off the roof with a strange smile and a farewell wave.

On the bed, Goodman continued to tug haplessly at his restraints, gurgling and gasping in desperation.

* * *

“He’s playing games.”

Logan pulled off his gloves angrily, throwing them in the garbage can outside the apartment as a flurry of Forensics techs continued to move in and out of the space. Veronica leaned against a far wall, jotting notes in her memo book. Her face was pale and her normally bright blue eyes were more of a smoky grey. 

“Of course he is,” she agreed, pocketing her book with a sigh. “Do you see why I wanted breakfast now?”

“Yeah. I’d chalk it up to the wisdom of age, but what’s a few months?” Logan joked weakly.

“A lifetime in this job.” A technician paused on the way out of the apartment, whispering in Veronica’s ear. “Thanks. They’re done with the major stuff. We can clear out, let Lamb supervise if he’s changed his pants.”

Inside his pocket, Logan’s phone vibrated again. Lilly, no doubt, wondering when he’d be home. She’d never understood this job. Never grasped that it wasn’t easy to hit pause, have a chat about shower sex or family drama. When he was deep in a case like this, he was _in it_. If she needed him, he would drop everything in a heartbeat. But casual chats? He couldn’t shut off the anger and sorrow.

He needed the fuel for the hunt.

“You’re stewing. Seething.”

Veronica was uncannily adept at seeing through his practiced stoicism. It was pissing him off and in some ways, a relief.

“I get it. I get that same fire. But the best way to get justice is to separate our emotions from the facts and focus on them.”

“Yeah, well I feed off my emotions like you feed off sarcasm,” Logan spat, slumping against the wall.

“This isn’t feeding, Logan. You’re letting it take charge and you _know_ I’m right. Lose the jackass bravado. Hey, are you listening to me?”

He was, but he wasn’t. A flicker of movement in his periphery had drawn his attention and he was tracking it now, edging towards the stairs. As he reached the top of the staircase, he grimaced in pain as a brilliant white light flashed in his eyes. A shutter noise.

_Paparazzi. You have got to be kidding me!_

“What the hell are you doing? Closed crime scene!” Logan shouted, throwing up a hand to shield his eyes.

“I gotta right to be here!” a man sneered in a heavy Bronx accent, his ball cap pulled low.

Memories of a childhood on display, trotted out as an accessory by his celebrity parents, simmered to the surface. “Like hell you do, you parasite! Go on, get out of here!”

Veronica hurried to his side, placing a cautioning hand on his arm as a second flash burst. His vision streaked, gleaming white lines squiggling like worms across his field of view.

“Fuck you, buddy!” the photographer shouted, storming down the stairs. “I got your picture, pal!”

“Yeah?”

“Logan, calm down,” Veronica urged him.

But he would not be calm. Could not be calm. A man had been systematically _starved and imprisoned for a year_ and this asshole was here to what, get a picture of the prison cell? Artfully frame a photo of the dangling pine trees in the late-day light? When did the world deem it acceptable to make human suffering a spectacle? 

“Take my name too. Come on down, coward, file a report. That’s Detective Echolls. E-C-H-O-L-L-S, fuck off!”

From the bottom of the stairs, a big, tough refrain: “I’m surprised you can spell, you ignorant asshole!”

Veronica pulled him away from the stairs, a firm hand upon his chest. “ _Enough_.”

Her tone left no room for argument, and Logan knew she was in the right. This was his own baggage, stirring to the surface. 

“How do they get here so fast?” he muttered angrily.

“They listen to scanners, or pay cops for the information. And they pay very well.” A beat. “I know, because one idiot tried to offer me cash once. I Tased him.”

Logan searched her face for a hint of a joke. Finding nothing but deadly seriousness, he allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.

“You sure you wanna give up all this?” he asked, sweeping his hand broadly.

Veronica nudged his arm with her shoulder, rolling her eyes. “My, how _will_ I leave it behind? C’mon. Let’s go see if Goodman’s stable enough to tell us anything about his captor.”

* * *

Her boots were yanked off and thrown in fury at the front door, coming to a rest in a heap by the tiny table where she kept her keys and junk mail. Her pants were unbuckled somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom and left in a wrinkled heap on the carpet, frustration and fatigue trumping tidiness. With a spoon and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s in hand in lieu of dinner, she staggered into her bedroom and flicked on the TV, flipping channels until settling on a rerun of _Pretty Little Liars_ to hate watch.

None of these girls called the cops when they should and they always called them when they absolutely did _not_ have their stories straight or wanted to use the police as their personal vengeance vehicle. It was nonsense, but it seemed to know it.

She needed to shut off her brain, push away this case and the clusterfuck of a day.

Spooning out a chunk of fudgy brownie, her eyes glazed over as Doctor Dryden’s assessment of Woody Goodman seeped back into the forefront of her mind.

_“A year of immobility seems about right, judging from the deterioration of his muscles and spine in the preliminary scans. Early results from his blood work show several drugs in his system, including a heavy duty broad spectrum antibiotic. Likely was pumping that into him to minimize infection in those sores.”_

_“Didn’t seem to help much,” Logan interjected._

_“Mr. Goodman easily could have died from septic shock long ago without them,” the doctor countered. “We’ll need to wait for the full tox screen, but there were definitely traces of sedatives and opioids.”_

Veronica didn’t taste the ice cream that slid down her throat as Spencer Hastings urged her fellow Liars to join her in what would be yet another failed attempt to snare the dreaded A.

_“Has he tried to communicate in any way?” Veronica asked._

_“Even if his brain weren’t mush—and given the lack of activity on his CT scan, it effectively is—he chewed his own tongue off a long time ago.”_

_Veronica was crestfallen. “A pen and paper, maybe—“_

_“Lieutenant, I understand you need to catch the person behind this. I really do. But that man would die of shock if you shone a flashlight in his eyes right now. That’s how traumatized he is, how much suffering he’s experienced. And he still has hell to look forward to. I’m sorry. Excuse me.”_

Screw it, she wasn’t hungry anyway. Padding down the hall in her rumpled blouse and panties, Veronica shoved the ice cream back in the freezer and stood in front of the open door, allowing the cool air to drift over her feverish face.

The killer had done this on purpose. Had nursed that man for a year with an IV and nasogastric tube, timing it out, offering them a living corpse. A victim who was neither dead nor alive, as a gigantic middle finger.

_Even with an eyewitness, the police can’t catch me._

“Three more days,” she whispered. “Then it’s Logan’s problem. Dad’s problem. It’s not my problem.”

Oh, who was she kidding? She knew herself, knew her compulsive need to see a case through. There were four more killings to come. Until they were complete—or the killer was stopped—she couldn’t rest. 

In the hallway, her pants began to ring.

Slamming the freezer shut, she retrieved her phone from the tangled mess on the floor, eyeing the display with a mix of confusion and concern. _Lilly Kane? Why is she calling? Is Logan okay?_

“Hello?”

_“Hey Veronica, it’s Lilly. Did I wake you?”_

“No, I’m up. Is everything okay?”

_“Oh! Oh, we’re fine. Nothing like that going on, pinky swear. But we said we were gonna be friends now, right?”_

Veronica tugged her hair free of its bun, allowing her hair to cascade along her shoulders. “Yes, of course we are. Lilly, you sound… off.”

_“I’m lacking in pep, Veronica Mars. I’ll give you that. Look, Lo’s in the shower and we don’t have long. I need someone to talk to besides Logan. The only people I know here are gossips, my clueless brother, my shitty parents and you. Is there any way we could meet tomorrow for breakfast? My treat.”_

“I… It would have to be really early. I normally drive Logan in.”

_“Problem solved. I got him a car today, so you’re off chauffeur duty. So can you? Please?”_

Veronica had known Lilly Kane for a brief time, but she had enough experience to recognize that her soft, shaky voice was an abrupt one-eighty from her usual confident self. Lilly was in genuine need of a confidante, and the urgency in that single word, that _please_ , worried Veronica deeply.

“Alright, sure.”

_“Fabulous. I’ll text you the details. Gotta go, Lo’s done singing the Stones which means he’s about to rinse off. And Vee? Thank you.”_

The line went dead, leaving Veronica staring at her phone, wondering what could possibly trouble the heiress so deeply, she’d seek out a relative stranger, rather than her partner of twelve years—a man who by all indications would lay down and die for her.

Had Lilly’s desire to return to California been about more than reconnecting with her sibling? And if so, was she in over her head?

[Story Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/074NxDR14f9ZBfXlo8ZaAV?si=d4atcDWOT4KNoVJtFnLSAw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week's chapter arrives Friday and it's a good thing it's a weekend chapter because it is DOUBLE long. No lie. It's over 10K words. Our detectives are VERY busy on their Friday, as you will see.
> 
> Your theories on the killer, Lilly, how deep LoVe are catching feelings and more are always welcome in the review box (or just let me know how you liked it). Thanks for reading!


	6. Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favourite chapter so far. It sets up so much of what to come, and brings the first real answers for our mystery. It's also the longest chapter so far - basically a double chapter for you!
> 
> Friday is a long day for our detectives, what can I say?
> 
> Playlist is linked at the end of the chapter for you - our newest additions:  
> Lilly - Moby (our opening scene)  
> Excess - Tricky (the apartment block sequence)  
> The Fall Of Man - Matthew Good Band (the final section)

**Friday  
**

Veronica awoke in a cold sweat, the sound of a gunshot haunting her as she shoved away the blankets and gasped for air. Seeing it was already five-thirty, she took a quick shower and worked her hair into a quick French braid before a text alert drew her attention.

Lilly had chosen a meeting place for breakfast. 

Veronica winced at the restaurant name, hesitating briefly before tapping a quick agreement. _That was a long time ago_ , she rebuked herself as she studied her wardrobe. _Lilly has no idea of your history in Venice Beach_.

Settling on a black blouse with a lightweight grey suit, she dressed quickly and headed for her car. Given the usual morning traffic in the city, the chances of making their agreed time of seven were slim, and Veronica loathed being late. 

With a little luck and a lead foot on the accelerator, she made it to The Violet with five minutes to spare. Giving her name for the reservation as directed, she was ushered to an intimate table in the rear of the café, where Lilly was already seated. Her hair was drawn back in an elegant high bun, her eyes masked by cat’s eye sunglasses. Lilly’s sleeveless ivory tea dress, adorned in blue and purple florals, blended perfectly with the elegant crystal light fixtures and upscale clientele filing in. At the sight of Veronica, she smiled weakly and rose to hug her in greeting.

“Hello, Veronica. Thank you for answering my distress call.” Lilly settled into her chair as Veronica took a seat across from her. “Don’t mind my Holly Golightly aesthetic. I can’t afford to be spotted, and while none of my usual crowd runs here, I can’t be too careful. Wayward software heiress, dating son of movie stars...”

“Paparazzi’s wet dream of a payoff,” Veronica reasoned. 

“Logan hates them. He’ll do anything to avoid a single shot. Me, I don’t mind a little glamour, but at the right event, on _my terms_. And this? This isn’t one of those days.”

A server walked—no, _glided_ by their table, as if strolling down a pageant walkway—and they ordered drinks. Veronica went with their house specialty roast, her go-to once upon a lifetime ago, while Lilly requested a ginger and honey tea with extra steamed milk.

“I have to admit, I’m a little surprised you called me instead of… anyone else?” Veronica began softly. “It doesn’t take a detective to see something’s bothering you, Lilly. Why me?”

“No, you see, it _has to be you_ ,” Lilly insisted, leaning forward. “All of the… societal bullshit, the friendships that form because dear mommy works with this person, or you know this person from that country club… You can never trust how your friendships form, because they’re brokered like a fucking business deal. They’re strategic. And sometimes, you find something real, Veronica. Sometimes, it’s _fun_ and _fabulous_ and when you hurt, they are _there for you_. But most of the time, they’re there for the good times and gone when it goes to shit. And the _gossip_!”

Lilly paused in her rant, waiting for the server to deposit their drinks on the table. The friendly blonde, still _gliding_ as she moved side to side, asked if they’d like to eat. Veronica glanced at the menu and selected the orange chocolate croissant; Lilly requested the blackberry “Pop Tarts” with graham crust. Veronica smiled wanly, thinking of her past excursions to The Violet. Their take on the toaster pastry was incredible.

As the server left to submit their order to the kitchen, Lilly sighed deeply. “When my parents decided that I was _too wild_ because I dared to make out with a freaking cabana boy when I was twelve and shipped me off to boarding school, do you know how many of my so-called friends called me? _Two_. I had twenty friends, Veronica. Do you know how many versions of the story I heard? _Seven_. You see why I’m not inclined to share my heavy with these people?”

Veronica huffed softly. “Well, these are the people who insisted I screwed the entire football team and half the teachers at Neptune High to get my grades when my dad accused the Fords of covering up their daughter’s death so yeah, not a fan of them. I guess I didn’t realize their backstabbing bullshit extended to their own royalty.”

“I forgot you grew up in Neptune, too! So you _know_ what I mean.” Lilly whistled low, shaking her head. “Caitlin Ford… I followed that murder from upstate New York. What a mess. Fuck them, your dad was half-right. The Fords were covering up _something_. Most rich people are. It’s their favourite pastime, besides spending money. Logan’s the only decent person with a black AMEX I know.”

“So, why can’t you talk to him about this? It’s obvious you two have a strong bond,” Veronica noted warmly, puzzled when this comment drew a sniffle from Lilly.

“Because the problem _involves him_ , obviously, or I would. Talking to you is practically like talking to him anyway, so I called you,” Lilly explained hoarsely.

“How so?”

Lilly sipped her tea, clutching the cup as she spoke. “Well, you’re both cops, so you have that ‘protect the world’ need. That _all about the job_ passion. That’s important for this… issue.” 

“Technically, I’m becoming a lawyer in a few days,” Veronica interjected, “but the experience is there.”

“Yes, and what do lawyers love to do? Argue! Something I may be an expert at, and Logan loves me, so no wonder he respects you so much. But that doesn’t even matter, because when he tells me about your arguments, they’re all ridiculous because the two of you are practically the same person. You even mentioned your shitty mom at dinner the other night, and Logan’s dad is a _monster_. You’re witty like Logan, but you’re kind. You showed up this morning without even knowing why, you know? Your heart is a good one. So asking you is basically like asking Logan, only not asking him… which is good because it’s about him and… Fuck, this is so hard…”

Setting her tea down, Lilly pulled off her sunglasses and dabbed away tears from bloodshot eyes. Veronica’s hand reached across the table, squeezing Lilly’s free hand in support.

“Lilly, hey… take your time. I’m here because I’m concerned, and I want to help.”

“Thank you,” Lilly whispered, nudging her glasses back into place as their server returned with their breakfast.

Veronica’s mind whirled with possibilities as Lilly took a tentative nibble of her pastry. _What was going on between Lilly and Logan that she couldn’t discuss with him? They seemed so in sync at dinner the other night._ During their car conversations, Logan always spoke of Lilly with a genuine fondness in his voice. 

Veronica swigged her coffee, steeling herself for what came next. 

“I’m pregnant,” Lilly whispered.

It wasn’t enough. Veronica’s vision blurred, her mind drifting back nine years to another table in this restaurant, another confession by another woman who sounded equally unhappy with this news.

“Does he know?”

“Not yet. It was… I fucked up. I thought my injection was due _after_ the move and it was due a month _before_ … and I went to get it yesterday. Mandatory screening first, of course… and my world dropped out.” Lilly laughed bitterly. “I thought the nausea was a hangover from our dinner soiree for some stupid reason. I never get hangovers, Veronica.”

A memory flashed in her mind: _“I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready, why don’t you care?”_

“Lilly, do you want kids?”

“I think so? Someday? But… Oh fuck, you’re going to think I’m the worst…”

Veronica pushed aside her croissant and leaned forward. “Lilly, what is it?”

_Oh, please don’t tell me you cheated on Logan. Please, please, don’t put me in that position…_

“I pushed Logan into this move, told him I wanted to be near my brother, right?” Lilly shook her head slowly, fidgeting with her tea cup. “That was true, but… Okay, I don’t know what Logan has told you about us, but there’s a reason we’re not married. Our relationship is… We’re both so distrusting and broken, I guess, that we just don’t leave each other because who else is there? The sex is good, we love each other, so why go? We have brought others in, here and there. Mostly me, because Logan is a bit of a puppy dog and too afraid to even think of trusting anyone else. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think I do, yeah.”

Lilly sipped her tea, making a face. “Okay, this crap is supposed to help, but it tastes like spicy barf. I can’t anymore. Veronica, Logan loves me. He loves me so much. I love him, too. But am I _in love_ with him? I…. don’t know anymore. And I don’t even think Logan is _in love_ with me. I think I’m just safe, and he feels sorta indebted to me because of the whole ‘stopped him from overdosing’ and getting him into rehab part of our lives. Like I said, paparazzi, liars… His childhood was _fucked up_ and that’s not my story to tell you. It’s not. But if you knew it all, you’d know that Logan trusting me this long is a miracle.”

“Oh god… You moved him here to end the relationship.”

Lilly grimaced, wavering her hand in a so-so gesture. “I wanted to sorta get him to consider it? We will always be dearest friends. But…. Yeah. I figured I could move in with Donut for a while and we could take some time, see if maybe we are ready to go find someone we actually love, head over heels style, not just someone we see as a safety net. Logan doesn’t really _love_ me, Veronica. I feel it in my gut. I saved his life, years ago, but that’s not an obligation for devotion, no matter what that sweet boy thinks. It just feels like I should let him go find the love he deserves. Especially now…”

Veronica leaned back in her chair. “Does Logan want kids?”

Lilly groaned, kicking her feet beneath the table. “That’s the worst part of this whole cosmic hailstorm: he _thinks_ he doesn’t, because he’s afraid he’ll be a douche like his dad, but he would be an _amazing father_ , Veronica. I know it. And if I tell him about this, and want to keep it, he will want to marry me and will never go find that epic love he deserves! Me, I’m like… if I keep it, we can still split. He’s the _best_ guy. I don’t need to marry him or even date him to co-parent with him. Arrgh!”

Veronica drew a deep breath, mulling the two problems at hand: the pregnancy itself, and Lilly’s desire to end the relationship. Neither were bombs to drop in the middle of a case that had Logan so wound up, he was practically ready to punch out stringer photographers at crime scenes.

“What do I do, Veronica? Your brain is a Logan brain. If you were Logan… or even not. Just… what do I do?” Lilly’s voice was fraught with emotion, her lower lip quivering.

Glancing around the familiar purple and beige décor, it seemed fated this conversation would be taking place here. She seldom dug this skeleton out of her closet, but perhaps if it would help Lilly…

“You remember the ex I mentioned at dinner? The irreconcilable differences?” Veronica bit her lip, swallowing back tears. “Norris and I… I got pregnant once. It was an accident. Condom broke, we didn’t know. It was right before I made Detective.”

“Oh, Veronica…” Lilly’s hand reached for hers now, and she accepted it gratefully.

“I knew I didn’t want kids then. Not then. It was the promotion of a lifetime, and in the climate of the force, if I took an immediate mat leave… I’d never get beyond Detective. Or it would be rescinded. I was also terrified of being a mother, because mine was an abandoning alcoholic. So Logan’s hesitation, I get that. Norris, on the other hand, was thrilled. His dad was tough love, but fair, and of course he didn’t have to carry the baby, miss work… We fought about it for three days. He was wearing down, but I could see that if I didn’t keep it, it might end us, and that would break my heart. So I thought, well maybe I won’t be my mom. Maybe I’ll fight discrimination. Gave myself a pep talk. Tried to want what he wanted.”

“What happened?” Lilly probed.

“We’re not sure whether the home tests were wrong or I miscarried. I went into the doctor to confirm and… wasn’t pregnant. It would have been at six weeks, and… I don’t know. I decided the tests were wrong because it was easier. Norris felt he’d lost a kid. That was the beginning of the end. Clearly, we had different desires in life, and I knew… it was done. I called the engagement off a month later.” Veronica nodded to a far corner. “We used to eat here a lot. Norris lives down the street. That was our table.”

“Oh, shit! Why didn’t you tell me? Should we leave? We’ll leave. Right now.”

“No, Lilly, it’s fine. This was perfect. It was fate.” Veronica forced a smile of reassurance. “Look, you have two decisions to make here: whether to keep the baby, and whether to stay with Logan. It sounds like you’ve made the latter… so you need to make the first one. I would tell you from my experience I learned two painful lessons. One, confirm with the doctor before bringing it up, which you have. Two, and this is my advice to you: if you decide not to keep it, and that’s your choice… don’t ever tell him you were pregnant. Just don’t tell him. Especially since you’re leaving.”

Lilly nodded slowly, picking at her pastry.

“But if you _do_ keep it, I’m totally spoiling this baby, so be ready for it.”

Lilly laughed, pulling off her sunglasses to brush away tears from her cheeks. “You better. You’ve earned cool auntie status for this conversation alone.”

“And whatever you do, Lilly… This case we’re on, it’s bad. It’s dangerous. If you can wait a few days, let us try and wrap it up or at least bring things down a notch… I’d do that. Logan being distracted in the field right now could be deadly, and I’m done after Sunday. I’ve got his back until then, but the idiots in the unit can barely operate their guns.”

“Oh, one hundred percent agreement. He doesn’t sleep well,” Lilly offered. “He tosses and turns. My lips are zipped. Honestly, I need time to decide, on my own.”

Glancing at her watch, Veronica grimaced. “I have to go or I’ll be late for a briefing. You gonna be okay?”

“You bet. But take that croissant to go, because it’s delicious and you earned it.”

Lilly rose to her feet as Veronica stood, beckoning her into an embrace. As her arms wrapped around her neck, Veronica inhaled the scent of freesia and vanilla. It was strangely soothing, and she returned the hug just a little tighter.

“You know, high schools are cliquey bullshit, but in another life where my parents didn’t banish me, I think we would have been best friends, Veronica Mars,” Lilly mused as they pulled apart.

“We’ll just have to be friends now instead,” Veronica replied warmly.

“The very best,” Lilly emphasized, tucking Veronica’s croissant in a napkin. “Now go, save the world. I’m counting on you two.”

“That’s the plan.”

* * *

The morning briefing with her father was an exercise in disappointment, on par with the time she’d earned a verbal written at the Academy for showing up hungover to training. The instructor, a personal friend of her father’s, had called him up as a _professional courtesy_ to inform Keith Mars that his daughter had shown up reeking of vodka, her shirt inside out and eyes bloodshot, and suggested that perhaps she needed to choose better cadets to associate with.

Two murders, and one as good as, in four days. Not a single shred of evidence pointing to a suspect. Not a hope in hell (or heaven) that the killer would slow down.

Disheartened and distracted by Lilly’s dilemma, she swung by the vending machine on the second floor for emergency mini Oreos before heading to her office. Logan’s office. _An office where she worked_ , she amended mentally in frustration, popping a cookie in her mouth as she pushed open the door.

Waiting on her desk was a large coffee cup and a brown paper bag.

“What’s this?”

Logan glanced up from the smaller desk in the corner, smirking. “You’re not the only one who can charm a barista. I know your secrets now.”

Peeking inside the bag, Veronica laughed. A birthday cake pop. Her favourite pick-me-up on particularly shitty days.

“Funny. I would have pegged you as a red velvet girl,” he mused.

Tossing her purse on the desk, she eagerly reached for the coffee. “I am a woman of many mysteries.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Veronica sipped her coffee, eyes averted from Logan’s intense gaze. _And what did that mean?_ _Wait a minute… this coffee is perfect._ She took another gulp to be sure, feeling her cheeks flush as Logan hummed triumphantly.

“A half shot of vanilla _and_ a shake of powder. Sneaky, Mars.”

“I have never lied about my coffee order!” she protested.

Logan balled up a napkin, tossing it at her. “Your _own father_ doesn’t know it!”

“He’s never _asked me_ ,” she replied. “He’s observed me adding sugars and powder, and he’s heard them announce the roast.”

“Lie by omission is still a lie,” he insisted playfully.

“If you know my coffee order, then my cake pop preference should make sense now,” she deflected, waving around the pink orb on its stick.

“You’re just mad I cracked your impossible coffee code before your retirement. Admit it, I’m a great detective,” Logan goaded.

“I’ll admit it if you find us a fucking lead on the Goodman case. This? This is you using _my skills_ from the other day. Modelled behaviour.” 

Taking a bite of her cake pop, Veronica crossed the cramped office to the wall beside Logan’s desk. Mounted just to the right of it was her whiteboard, one of her favourite assets in the entire room. Being able to scribble ideas, sketch out connections visually… it often revealed stones she had yet to overturn. 

Her proximity to Logan, however, was unnerving her. The knowledge that Lilly was pregnant—and that she was ready to end their relationship—was caustic. 

_Solve it_ , she ordered herself. _Solve this damn case, so Lilly can shed her secrets._

She reached for a dry erase marker, scribbling down each of the seven sins in turn in black ink. She reached next for red, crossing out three: Gluttony, Greed and Sloth.

“What are you doing?”

“We can’t just sit here and stuff our faces with sweets, waiting for another call, although a dozen cake pops sounds like a balanced lunch to me,” Veronica replied. “Every scene has held a message for us, or a clue for where to go next. We need to dig deeper, starting with Goodman.”

“Every preacher’s got a style of sermon, especially the televangelists,” Logan considered aloud. “This guy’s a homicidal televangelist. Big flashy message, twisting the good book to suit his personal interpretation.”

“I like that. I like that a lot.” In blue, Veronica scribbled _homicidal televangelist_ on the right hand side on the board. “Did we find any notes at the Goodman scene?”

Logan shuffled through the case file on his desk, holding up a finger. “Yeah, they found a message scribbled on the back of one of the photos of the kids…’ _Every sin is the result of a collaboration.’_ I looked it up. Quote’s from a Roman statesman. Lucius Annaeus Seneca.”

“What, it’s not in your Bartlett’s?”

“Must be in the serial killers obsessed with Bibles edition.”

Veronica hummed softly, scribbling down the quote. “Can you pass me the other quotes, too? I want to see all three in one place.”

Logan passed her the photocopied notes and she affixed them to the whiteboard frame with magnets. Taking a step back, she read the killer’s missives, one by one:

**_Long is the way and hard that out of hell leads up to light._ **

**_One pound of flesh, no more, no less. No cartilage, no bone, but only flesh. This task done and he would go free._ **

**_Every sin is the result of a collaboration._ **

“If the murders are the sermons, these are, what, his instructions to us?” Veronica posited.

“What if this is more like Catholicism?” Logan asked. “The murders are like… the liturgy, or the readings he’s selected, and these are the homily, or his interpretation?”

“The ultimate message or meaning, then. That first quote signalling a beginning, telling us _I am patient_ , that this has been a long road. This has been planned for a long time.”

Logan rose from his chair, standing beside her. “The second one is just instructions for Casablancas though.”

“But it’s more than that, if you think about it,” Veronica argued, turning to face him. “The killer is saying there are rules. There are ways to atone, to maybe even survive these trials. Big Dick might have lived if he’d chosen to hack multiple pieces off himself instead of one pound in one place. That tells us something about the killer. He’s twisted but a part of him _wants_ people to atone.”

Logan shook his head. “Damn it… That’s messed up. So this creep’s seen too many _Saw_ movies?”

“I don’t know, but there’s an element of repenting and escaping here… And this last one, that’s a condemnation of us. Goodman should have been in jail. He was chosen because in the killer’s mind, he should have been _rotting in prison_. He wasn’t though, because people lied for him. Looked the other way.”

“Blew up a bus to silence the story out of shame,” Logan added quietly.

“Yeah…” Veronica’s palm rubbed her right arm subconsciously, massaging the tiny scar from the repeated Taser jabs to her bare flesh. 

Logan’s hand covered hers, his forehead deeply furrowed as she glanced up in surprise. “That’s the second time you’ve done that when Cassidy’s come up. What did he do to you?”

“What? It’s nothing,” she deflected, pulling her hand away.

“Veronica—“

“ _It’s nothing_ ,” she repeated softly, turning her back to him. 

_The smell of human skin cooking will stay with you,_ she wanted to tell him. _It smells like burnt lard and something almost like pork, but then there’s the hair, the fine little hairs of your arm, and that smell, that rancid stench and raw wax, you won’t forget it. There are no words for it, it just is. It’s sharp and pungent and you will wash your wounds, but it clings to your nostrils. It moves in, an unwanted house guest, and it bangs your pots and pans at three in the morning. You won’t sleep tight. You will not dream. You will smell the burning, and know it was your body on fire._

“Veronica?”

Shaking herself, she screwed on her practiced look of stoicism and focused on the board. “So we know how our killer thinks of us. We know this person is patient and methodical. They paid Goodman’s rent for a _year,_ used a catheter, IV, feeding tubes, all in the name of this _message_. That’s a level of calculation I’ve never seen, and we cannot underestimate it. Now, how do we _find_ them?”

“Damned if I know,” Logan muttered, collapsing into his chair. “No prints, no DNA. All we know about this asshole is they have an overworked library card or Kindle.”

“Holy shit, how did I not think of this?” Slinging her purse over her shoulder, Veronica gulped the perfect coffee Logan had brought her ( _damn him_ ). “You feel like putting that trust fund to use?”

“Uh, what for?”

Veronica shrugged. “No big deal, just bribing an Intelligence officer for a little less than legal intel.”

Logan blinked hard, three times. “I’m sorry, _what the fuck?_ ”

* * *

“This is just an excuse for you to eat more waffles, isn’t it?”

“Who said I was getting waffles this time?” 

She wasn’t. It was lunchtime. That meant a bowl of Ricky’s mac and cheese with crispy bacon and a cherry cola. But first, they would attend to a little business, thanks to the five hundred dollar bills Logan had graciously tucked inside a brown envelope.

Veronica glanced at her watch as her foot tapped impatiently beneath the table. _Five minutes_. Enough time to order, if Logan quit complaining and chose a meal. He flipped the oversized menu open with a heavy sigh, peering over the laminated cover at her. 

“So you’re not going to tell me why we spent the last hour at the library making a list of books?”

Why did this man have to try her patience every single day? 

“I will _after_ we make contact. Pick food already, I want to order before she gets here.”

“I’m getting the club sandwich with a salad. Whatever.” Shoving the menu aside, Logan flicked her menu. “Pick something.”

“I already have—“

Veronica gasped as Logan snatched her menu from her hands, tossing it in the air and catching it with ease. 

“So you can tell me what the list is for,” Logan concluded with a smirk.

“Has anyone told you how fucking annoying you are?”

“Hmm, once or twice. Lilly tells me it’s one of my standout qualities.”

Veronica flicked a sugar packet at his face as their waitress arrived to take their order. Logan took it in stride, retaliating after her departure with a Sweet and Low packet that pinged off Veronica’s nose. 

“Sweet and Low? You calling me short?”

“I’m just saying, if you change your mind about Lilly’s invitation to roam Europe with us next summer, there are churches and tombs where you wouldn’t be crouching, whereas I would practically be hobbling myself at the knees to explore them.”

“And like I told you both at dinner, some of us do _not_ come from inherited wealth.”

Logan’s pitying smile grated on her last nerve. “Just wait until Lilz figures out your birthday. She’ll shove a plane ticket in a card, Mars. You’re screwed.”

The jingling bell on the diner door drew Veronica’s attention, revealing a woman in a slim-fit navy suit and a black ruffled blouse beneath. Her hair, cut in an angled chin-length bob, was streaked in magenta. _Someone’s sticking her finger up at the dress code again._ A quick scan of the diner brought her to Veronica’s table and she nodded in greeting.

“Let me do all the talking,” Veronica whispered as their guest approached.

Logan slumped in his seat, reaching for his coffee. “Yeah, you told me on the drive. Twice.”

Pausing in front of the booth, the brunette eyed Logan with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Veronica smiled reassuringly, scooching over to make room in the booth.

“My replacement, and a worthy one. Looking good, Q.”

“Flattery, Bond? I’m touched.” Her focus shifted across the table to Logan, studying his slouched posture and skeptical stare. “Mac.”

“Detective Logan Echolls. Mars says you can solve a problem for us.”

Mac shrugged, reaching for Veronica’s coffee and stealing a sip. “If it’s the kind of problem I specialize in, it’s already solved. Jesus Veronica, this is basically syrup with a shot of coffee.”

“Then don’t steal it,” Veronica rebuked lightly, jabbing her in the arm. “Logan, the envelope?”

He slid the manila envelope across the table and Mac’s hand shot out quickly. Veronica noticed him taking stock of her high-end Rolex, the gears turning in his mind. Mac wasn’t ostentatious, but she had worked very hard to afford that watch. It was her private symbol of triumph over the cesspool of classist bullshit at Neptune High.

“The usual inside?”

“Your fee and a reading list,” Veronica replied.

Mac’s fingers tapped the envelope in a light staccato. “This is about what I think it’s about, isn’t it?”

“You know I can’t tell you.”

“That’s a yes.” Peeking inside the envelope, Mac pursed her lips and hummed softly. “Three-thirty, usual spot.”

“Thanks.”

Tucking the envelope inside her purse, Mac departed as swiftly as she entered, her eyes scanning the crowd as she stepped back out onto the crowded sidewalk. As the waitress brought their meals, Logan waved his hand at her quizzically.

“What exactly did my money just buy?”

“First of all, it’s department money after you file a CI Expense report,” Veronica corrected him. “Second, what you bought were the services of the hacker who conned the 09’ers of Neptune High into completing Purity Tests and then paying to see everyone else’s results so she could buy herself a new car.”

Logan snorted, reaching for his sandwich. “Oh that’s devious. I admire the moxie. But where do the books come in, and how does the force justify hiring a hacker with high-end attire?”

Veronica suppressed a moan of happiness as she swallowed a mouthful of mac and cheese. “What do you know about the Patriot Act?”

“I know it gives the Feds a hell of a lot of access to personal information without a warrant.” Logan paused, pouring dressing over his salad. “We’re not Feds, Veronica.”

“Mac is. FBI Intelligence.” She leaned in closer, loading her fork with cheesy pasta. “Think about our killer. The things they’d need to know to do what they do. The books they’re interested in and quoting. What you said reminded me of her access.”

“And we just paid for… what? A VIP pass?” He shifted in his seat, the midday sun illuminating Logan from behind in a soft, yellow glow. “Goddamn. Is that legal?”

Veronica shovelled a forkful of macaroni into her mouth as a reply.

* * *

Cheerful music chimed over the hill, broken by the occasional burst of youthful laughter, as he sat beside Veronica on a bench in one of the city’s biggest and busiest parks. When asked why Mac would choose such a public drop for an illegal exchange of intelligence, Veronica had laughed.

“Always do what people least expect. How do you look like you’re not exchanging secret documents? By casually hanging out in broad daylight.”

He’d spent the afternoon reading through the case files and his copy of Dante’s _Divine Comedy_ , making notes from his newly-coined _homicidal televangelist_ perspective. The little details mattered to Logan, perhaps more than ever. The _Oversized Baggage_ stickers on the weight at the Casablancas scene were printed in English and Spanish, the colours green and red—evoking the flag of The Maldives, where Big Dick had fled for a year before coming home to face judge and jury.

_This killer has done their homework. Studied their victims._

Veronica had finished clearing out her files, boxing them for storage in central archives aside from a handful of unsolved cases she prepared summaries for. He’d quickly scanned the first three, understanding immediately why they remained open: no physical evidence, no witnesses, the majority of the victims either unidentified or isolated individuals with few friends or relatives to speak to their movements prior to death. The kind of cases where it took luck or a deathbed confession to crack.

“You want a coffee?”

Logan shook himself slightly, snapping back to the present. “Hmm, yeah, I could use one, thanks.”

Veronica stretched her arms overhead, rolling her neck. “Be right back. Keep your eyes peeled for Mac. She should be here soon.”

Logan watched her as she headed down a pathway to his left, counting her steps to the small refreshment stand. One hundred and thirty-four. With his speed and longer legs, he could reach her in twenty seconds. Still, his focus did not waver as she stood in line, scrolling through her phone. 

For three more days, they were _de facto_ partners. Her safety was paramount.

Inside his pocket, his phone vibrated. Once, twice, a third time before he roughly tugged it from his pocket and glared at the screen. _Blocked Number_. Logan scanned the surrounding pathways in search of Mac as he tapped to answer, hoping the FBI Agent had helped herself to his details. The alternatives were far less palatable.

“Echolls.”

_“I find it striking that you’ll show compassion for Richard Casablancas, but you have none for your father. Doesn’t that strike you as hypocritical, son?”_

Fucking hell. He really needed to make time to change this phone number—and figure out who the hell gave it to Aaron in the first place.

“Unlike you, Richard Casablancas served jail time for his crimes. Are you saying you’re prepared to go to jail for beating your wife and son? Because I can arrange a patrol car to pick you up, _Dad_.”

_“One conversation, Logan. One opportunity to prove to you how much I’ve changed. I’ve learned so much recently about myself. I’ve done a lot of deep thinking about all I’ve done in my life, and the man God would want me to be—“_

“Fantastic. You know what I think about?” Logan hissed, watching as Veronica ordered their coffees. “I think about how I will spend the rest of my life uncomfortable swimming in public because of the scars across my back. I think about how we never found all of Mom’s body, just her skull and leg bones. I think about how much energy I have wasted in my life controlling the anger I have within me thanks to your actions. I think about all of these things every year, when your wire payment comes in, and I make an annual generous donation to several charities supporting survivors of domestic violence. I hope it pisses you off, that the money you fought me over for three years goes to defeating monsters like you.”

_“Forgiveness is—“_

“Not in my vocabulary when it comes to you. Take it up with the Devil when you get to Hell. Call me or Lilly again, and I’ll file a restraining order.”

His hand shook as he ended the call and sent a quick text to Lilly, warning her to screen calls from blocked numbers. Veronica approached him warily, coffees in hand and brow furrowed.

“What’s wrong?”

“More than I can unpack on a bench in a park,” he replied, accepting her proffered caffeine. “Thanks for this. Now I _really_ need it.”

Veronica settled on the bench beside him, running her index finger around the rim of her cup. “If there’s anything I _can_ do on a bench in a busy park…”

He gulped his coffee, grimacing at that gritty burnt taste of a pot left on a burner far too long. Although, it was perfectly sweetened, with a hint of nuttiness. Not quite almond, but hazelnut maybe? It was uncanny, how Veronica filed even minutiae with precision in her brain.

“There she is…”

Logan followed Veronica’s gaze to the northern entrance, where Mac strode in. Her suit jacket was shed, leaving her in a sleeveless ruffled blouse and slacks. In one hand, she carried a tote bag; in the other, a Venti from Starbucks. Her aviators were deeply tinted, her smile relaxed. 

Just another businesswoman looking to unwind in a public space. 

“Watch and learn,” Veronica whispered, rising to her feet. “Mac will take care of you if you take care of her.”

Mac waved to Veronica as she meandered up the path, offering her a one-armed embrace. “Veronica! It’s been forever. How have you been?”

“Same old, same old. Packing my place up for the move, buying textbooks. How about you? You look _amazing_.”

Logan drank it in: the casual chatter, the sips of coffee between exchanges. The friendly hip-check Mac gave Veronica as she encouraged her to take a challenging course at Stanford. Veronica even waved him over, introducing him as her new co-worker and friend.

_Friend?_ Well, that was nice to hear. Was he blushing? Fuck, he _was_ blushing, wasn’t he? _Why am I blushing?_

“Nice to meet you, Logan! Technically, I’m Cindy Mackenzie, but please call me Mac.”

“Good to meet you, Mac,” he gamely replied. “Did you go to Stanford together?”

He noticed Veronica’s hand slip inside her purse, a slight twitch in her forearm as she seemingly _searched her bag_ as discreetly as possible. “Oh God no, we go all the way back to high school.”

“I ended up at MIT. Computer nerd,” Mac explained with a grin. “Came back to California to work at Intel.”

“Nice. I used to work for Boston PD, just came back myself.”

Logan watched the women exchange a look: Mac’s quizzical, Veronica’s a slight nod and a warm smile.

“Must be the beaches,” Veronica mused. “Golden sand, the surf…”

“The annual forest fires, the drought,” Mac countered wryly.

“Ha, ha. Anyway, we’re on a lunch break, so we better get back to it. Having your dad as the boss only goes so far.”

Mac smirked, tipping her coffee cup in farewell. “Thanks for warming my bench for me. Nice to meet you, Logan. Veronica, call me before you drive off in that broken car of yours.”

They made it twenty feet before Logan’s curiosity got the better of him. “Make like a teapot and spill.”

Veronica leaned into him as they cut towards the parking lot, her arm brushing against his. “Mac used to run IT on cases I did behind my dad’s back in high school. She’s familiar with a classic bump and bait, which is our standard MO.”

_The hip check. Son of a…_

“So you don’t even know what we have yet.”

“Knowing Mac, it’s thorough, and that’s all I care about. Now hush, until we’re in the car.”

Fifty-six steps to the car. He counted them, eager to know what his five hundred dollars had purchased from the FBI’s ill-gotten gains. Veronica, too, seemed eager, her strides a little longer as she circled to the driver’s side door and hit the unlock button on her remote. Logan had scarcely slid into the passenger seat and secured his seat belt before a white envelope, thick with pages, was thrust in his lap.

“You read, I’ll start driving,” Veronica announced, shoving her purse in the backseat.

Carefully slitting the envelope open, Logan examined the documents within. The first page was a list of ten names, annotated in red pen by Mac’s neat writing.

**_Search of library records and book purchases cross-referenced with persons born in California or residing here – ten hits with 90% or higher._ **

“Well?” Veronica demanded.

“We have a top ten for the books,” Logan relayed, shuffling to the next page. “Wait… you asked for keyword searches?”

“Internet activity searches, red flag words and forums. Things related to medical textbooks, how to get away with murder, religious cults, and standard FBI profile flags for lone wolf serial killers who communicate with police and have a message of some kind, like Jack the Ripper or the Zodiac. Figured it would weed out literature snobs and general zealotry.”

“That’s…”

“Smart? Yeah, I took a few courses in Forensic Psychology at Stanford. Interned at Quantico during my Pre-Law years as well. What did Mac find?”

Logan scanned through the results, focusing on Mac’s annotations. “The bottom four, she says they’re a bust. Nothing of interest. Number five seems to be a lit major… wait, no, she confirmed it with his college records. _Veronica, is this admissible_?”

“Nope.” She made a sharp turn onto the freeway, tossing him a smirk. “Look, we’re not using this in court. Ever.”

“Okay, but if we find the asshole on this list, how do we justify bringing him in?”

Veronica sighs. “We do surveillance and if it looks promising, Dad will call in a favour to a friend and request FBI back-up through Intelligence. Mac will “find” all of this again, and _then_ it’s admissible.”

“So why not just ask off the bat?” Logan queried, scanning the next page. 

Her fingers drummed anxiously on the wheel as she signalled and moved into the fast lane. “Because normally, we would be told no, except the favour would be from his ex, and Dad hates calling her, alright? If we call anyone else at the Bureau, there’s a chance they take over the whole thing and fuck it up, and I’ll be damned if they make a mess of this.”

Shuffling pages, Logan glanced at Mac’s notes and froze. “Shit, Veronica? She found something.”

“What? Tell me!”

“Hit number two on her book list, they tripped on all the red alerts, particularly flags for judging society and seeing oneself as a force of reckoning, as well as…. Fuck, he searched for _inserting catheters and nasogastric tubes_. Videos and training manuals.”

“Woody Goodman,” Veronica murmured.

“You’re never going to believe the name, either.” His hand ran over his hair as he shook his head in disbelief. “Jonathan Doe.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Pays with prepaid Visas, uses library mostly…” Logan flipped to the last page. “And we have an address. Three blocks from where we found Woody.”

“Perfect access for monitoring your _patient_ ,” Veronica spat. 

His mind reeled as the information on the pages, Veronica’s casual knowledge of profiling and their not-so-legitimate afternoon adventure collided in his skull. The whys and hows were of little importance. Five folded pages of high-quality paper, marked in ruby-red ink, held the key to _finally_ being one step ahead.

Every book, checked out of the library. His internet search history was an alarming mix of anatomy, religious fervor and even police procedures. Logan’s stomach inverted, his pulse racing as he stared at Mac’s annotations: 

**_This one scares me._ **

The papers fell from his fingers as he stared at the freeway ahead. “Veronica… I think this is our guy.”

With a glance in the rear view, Veronica signalled for the next exit. “In that case, let’s pay him a little visit…”

* * *

Jonathan Doe resided on the top floor of a six-storey walk-up in one of the worst neighbourhoods of the city. Veronica pulled her car into an underground lot for a bank a block away, strictly because of its video surveillance and security patrol, and tipped the guard a twenty to pay attention to her crappy Jetta. 

The weather had turned en route, the clouds overhead a menacing shade of charcoal and hanging low. A heavy rain loomed, and Veronica hoped they could get a feel for the place, maybe grill the landlord if he seemed the chatty type, and bounce before the storm broke. 

“What unit?”

“604,” Logan replied as they approached 1170 Liberty. “Well, it’s not Beverly Hills.”

“Only the finest cockroaches.” Veronica eyed the building, taking in the peeling paint and worn awning, but the relatively clean entryway. “They’re trying, so it’s one of the better dives. Our Doe is laying low, but won’t tolerate filth.”

“Do we go in, or hang around?”

Mulling their options, Veronica shrugged. “Let’s knock on his door. Knock on every door on the floor. Treat it like a canvass. He’s close enough to Goodman’s scene that we might be circulating. See if he squirms.”

“Or if we recognize him,” Logan added, jogging up the steps.

“That too.” A single cold droplet struck the top of her head and Veronica scurried after him. _Fucking rain._

The blessing of broken buildings lay in the busted locks of lobbies like Doe’s: a sharp tug and they easily entered the inner vestibule. Veronica studied the faded white and grey speckled tiles and remnants of what was once a classic California modernist décor, now gaudily meshed with modern accoutrements from Ikea for quick and dirty repairs. Several of the light fixtures along the walls had cracked globes, and one flickered violently, as if a windswept candle’s flame.

“Stairs are over there,” Logan informed her, gesturing to their right.

They took their time traversing the central staircase, pausing at each landing to scan the corridors for lingering tenants, perhaps someone who might know the man calling himself Doe. Veronica had no doubt the name was a pseudonym, but in reviewing Mac’s findings, she was struck by the commitment to crafting a fully-realized identity. Bank accounts, prepaid credit card, library card, Amazon account, even Netflix… Jonathan Doe was one of the masses, a consumer of media and contributor to the unholy wealth of Jeff Bezos.

As they reached the sixth floor, a chill crept over Veronica’s skin. In the back of her mind, voices whispered from another building, another time…

_“A disturbance? What, you mean a sick baby? If people are gonna be bothered by a sick baby, they can come take a goddamn turn at rocking and soothing her. Let me get some damn sleep!”_

_“We understand this is frustrating. It’s our job to conduct a welfare check when people are concerned—“_

“Veronica?”

“Hmm? Sorry, just thinking of our strategy here.”

Logan leaned against the wall beside her, his head bowed low. “You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

_“See? She’s had an ear ache since Thursday night. Been wailing from the fever all day.”_

_“We’re sorry to disturb you. Do you have a pediatrician?”_

Veronica swallowed down the bile rising in her throat and forced a half-smile. “I’m fine. 604, right? Rock Paper Scissors to see who knocks?”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Not a chance. I’m talking. Expert canvasser, remember?”

Veronica winced, matching his stride as they headed down the hall. “Not my finest hour.”

“Hour? Try two and a half. With Friedrich. Speaking of, that guy’s obsessed with you. I don’t like it.”

There was a venom in his voice as he spoke, a protectiveness in those four words. _He doesn’t like it. As in, Friedrich is a step away from kidnapping stalker? Or something else?_

Door 604 was the last on the right. Painted red, the number a simple brass plate, it was disconcerting in its normalcy. It could be anyone’s door. It could be a _home_. 

Mac’s research told her it was home to someone who read Dante, Chaucer and the Bible. Someone who read textbooks on anatomy and homicide investigations. Someone who once searched the internet for _the slowest way to kill someone without poison_. 

Logan knocked briskly on the door and she stood aside, allowing the wall to shield her body. Just in case… In case it went wrong....

A second knock. No answer.

“Maybe he works,” Logan mused.

“Maybe he’s working on a sermon,” Veronica muttered angrily, her voice trailing off as movement behind Logan drew her gaze.

A man stood at the top of the stairs, grocery bags clutched high to obscure his face. A ball cap was pulled low, further concealing his identity.

“Echolls,” she whispered, jerking her head in the stranger’s direction.

As Logan’s neck turned, affording him a view of the mystery man, his right hand plunged inside his pocket and abandoned his groceries. Cans spilled from the paper bag like pennies cast into a fountain as the stranger withdrew a weapon from his pocket and opened fire.

Veronica dove for the ground, her hand falling to her hip and unsnapping the holster, but the fear, it consumed her. Her lungs emptied and crumpled like discarded tissues as she gasped for air, trapped in a nightmare loop.

_Meg is walking down the hallway. She hears a sound. Veronica misses it, too busy rattling off the details of a free health clinic. Trying to be a good person. Trying to help the woman, because she says no one cares about her welfare. No one cares._

_A body hits the ground with a dull thud and Veronica draws her weapon. “MEG!”_

_No reply. Her weapon swings towards the woman, which makes Veronica shake because there is a FUCKING BABY IN HER ARMS now but she needs to know who is in the back of the damn apartment with Meg._

_“There’s someone else here. You lied. Start talking,” Veronica demands._

_The mother shakes her head furiously, clutching her infant to her chest. “There’s no one. Our baby is sick, that’s all!”_

_Our?_

_Veronica keys her mic, demands back-up for a possible 11-99. Her heart pounding, she edges down the narrow hallway of the tiny apartment, pausing to check the grimy bathroom before approaching the bedroom at the end of it. Her boots clomp softly off the wood parquet, denying her stealth, but she has wits, she has determination, and she will find her partner if it’s the last thing she fucking does…_

“You hit?”

Veronica shook her head, struggling to bring her breath under control. Logan hesitated, glancing down the hall and back at her. His hand gripped her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Go,” she gasped. “Be careful.”

“I’ll be back for you. I promise, Veronica.”

“You better…”

Logan’s steps fell heavy as he pursued Doe to the stairwell, cautiously peering down to the next landing. Two more shots rang out, and Veronica whimpered as they echoed the shots in her memory.

_A groan of pain, a scuffing of shoes. Veronica peers in the room and spots Meg on the floor in a crumpled heap in front of a large closet with double sliding doors. Standing before her is a tall man, broad and disheveled, hair to his mid-back and track marks along his arms. In his hand is a gun, and it’s trained on Meg._

_“This isn’t your business,” he snarls at her. “This is my home. My family. I make the rules.”_

_“Abuse is our business,” Meg replies defiantly._

_No, no, no. De-escalate the situation. That’s what they’re supposed to do. That’s what Meg should do. Except Meg’s told Veronica about the horrific abuse she grew up with, and she knows this is her trigger point. It’s why Veronica keeps telling her father not to let dispatch request them for emergency back-up on domestics._

_Veronica doesn’t have a clear shot and that’s a problem, because whoever this guy is, he’s raising his gun and releasing the safety. He’s going to fire. Which means she needs to fire, now. She takes a step, desperate to find a shot, and tips him off. He spins in her direction, fires two shots at her. One narrowly misses her head; the other strikes her vest and she is down, stunned by the force…_

“Fifth floor!” Logan called out, rushing down the stairs.

“Come back,” Veronica pleaded meekly, pressing herself against the wall for stability.

_And then, he turns, and that gun, it is aimed at Meg. Meg, who is bleeding from a strike to her head. Meg, whose gun is in his hand. Meg, who sobs once in defeat as he fires once, twice, three times into her face as Veronica screams._

_Her ribs are bruised from the bullet, but she doesn’t think it pierced the armor. It doesn’t matter: Veronica takes aim and fires, a single precise shot to the head._

_Inside the closet, a seven year-old boy is found, his arm broken, his body bruised. Veronica understands when she crawls through the spreading pool of Meg’s blood to check her pulse and sees him._

_Meg had spent her childhood locked in closets as punishment. She had heard a noise, and instinct had brought her to the true cause of the disturbance in the home that night. The mother had lied, and Meg died._

Her breathing slowed as she heard Logan’s footsteps grow distant, adrenaline kicking in. _What if Doe hurts him?_

“No,” she murmured, scrambling to her feet. “Not again. Not him.”

The floor rocked beneath her feet, a ship tossed on tides, and her hand slammed against the wall to steady her seasick sway. _Get it together, Mars! For Meg. For Logan. Oh God, Lilly. The baby._

That does the trick: if Lilly chose to keep the baby, Veronica could not deny that child a father in the future because she was panicking on a dirty floor over a past that could never be undone.

Pulling her Glock from its holster, she jogged towards the stairwell, listening for the sounds of footfall below. She would not lose another partner on her fucking watch. 

* * *

Logan would give Doe this: he was a crafty, quick fucker, and it was _pissing him off_. 

After pursuing him to the third floor, a woman’s scream down the western corridor sent him careening in that direction, his weapon trained in front of him. She waved desperately at the open door of her apartment and Logan entered, taking his time to check every blind spot, knowing this asshole would not hesitate to take another shot. Judging from the size of the piece he was carrying, he had at least eight more rounds and Logan didn’t care to get hit by any of them.

A soft whimper behind a door to his left drew suspicion and Logan braced himself as he kicked it in, immediately tucking behind the adjacent wall as a shield. Within the room sat two small children, perhaps five and seven, on a double bed with a lumpy mattress and a worn knitted blanket. Their faces were dirty, their eyes wide. The littler one, a girl, was struggling not to cry. In the background, a small TV hummed with old cartoons.

Logan held up a hand at roughly the man’s height, not wanting to make a sound. The elder child, a boy, mutely pointed at a door in the far corner of the room.

Logan placed himself between the door and the children, then waved them away. The boy grabbed his sister’s hand, pressing his finger to his lips as he led her into the living room. 

_Damn it. Too close._

The door was ajar. After some debate, Logan kicked it open, finger on the trigger and nerves steeled. No Doe, only yellowing walls, a smattering of toiletries—and a fluttering white curtain, undulating wildly as a heavy rain fell outside. Gripping the gossamer fabric, Logan twisted it aside, grimacing at the neatly sliced screen.

_I hate this guy_.

Leaning out the window earned him a frantic scramble to hit the ground as Doe took three more shots at his skull. No one had ever shot at him three times, and he’d arrested Irish mobsters. 

_Alright Veronica, you win. Homicide here is a special kind of hell_. 

A second glance out the window told him Doe was long gone, as expected. He was using the shots as cover fire, driving Logan off his heels and buying time to escape. _Screw that_. Swinging his long legs out the window and gripping the ledge, Logan dropped the six feet to the roof of an adjacent low rise, following Doe’s escape route to the north. 

His feet stung from the impact, his back drenched with sweat as his fists pumped at his side, but his focus was on a singular goal: capture John Doe. As he skidded along the slick pavement, dodging wet mulch and debris, the shrill shrieking of an intrusion alarm to his left gave him pause.

_What’s over there?_

A movie house, it turned out. The kind that only showed adult films, according to the marquee. The smashed up window was a virtual tunnel to the top floor, and if Logan squinted, the silhouette of a fleeing man could just be seen.

“Arrgh!”

A jump and he was through, back in pursuit, back in the game, and he was so close now, so damn close. When Doe dove out a second story window, Logan veered to his left and used his ace in the hole: the fire escape. Hands gripped tightly, he kicked the release and let gravity expedite matters—a trick Lilly had taught him back at John Jay.

In the distance, a siren blared. Patrol car en route for the alarm. Not like they’d know homicide was here, after all, nor could they explain their presence. Maybe Veronica could, with her chess grandmaster strategizing, but he was at a loss.

The rain was relentless now, a cold, punishing force that dripped into his eyes, soaked his coat and seeped into his skin. A skittering of noise at the rear of the theatre led him around the corner, where he found an unattended box truck, the engine still humming. Weapon drawn, he cautiously approached the driver’s side and peered in the window.

No one. _Inside the back of the truck, maybe?_

He’d taken two steps, maybe three towards the rear when a brutal strike to the back of his head drove Logan to his knees. A second hit battered his left hand and knocked his gun under the vehicle, well out of reach.

_Crow bar. Fuck._ On the bright side, he could think of thirty ways he’d like to hurt Doe with that crow bar right now if he could _see straight_. The vertigo, the nausea every time he tried to press up onto his hands and knees, the shock of pain if he moved his neck to the right… This wasn’t good.

He heard a click, felt the muzzle of a gun press to his temple and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Dying in a muddy puddle, his hand swelling up, unable to see his killer… It wasn’t the story he wanted to tell on the other side. _First man to die of Martian virus. Skydiving disaster, landed in active volcano._ Something with whimsy. Not this. _God please, not this_ …

“Hey!”

A shot rang out and the muzzle fell away. Logan whimpered as footsteps approached in short, hurried strides. Fingers slid along his neck, feeling for a pulse.

“I’m alive,” he mumbled.

“Are you hit?”

_Veronica_. Logan blinked hard, bringing her concerned face into a blurry focus.

“Only by a crowbar. My piece… under the truck.”

“On it. Stay here.”

There was a scuffing sound, a grunt, and the familiar sensation of his Glock in his hand. 

“Safety’s on,” Veronica told him. “What happened?”

“He hit me… but from high? I think he was on top of the truck.” 

Veronica’s arm slid beneath him, pulling his shoulders onto her lap. “Asshole. Alright, we’re calling for paramedics.”

“I’ll be fine in a minute,” Logan insisted, shifting around as he holstered his gun and freezing as Veronica groaned in pain. “ _You_ don’t sound fine. You told me you weren’t hit!”

“Yeah, well I took a shortcut down to ground and clipped my knee off a fire escape. It’s fine.”

His head was pounding but he could see her as he tilted his head back. Rivulets of rain cascaded down her face, soaking her suit jacket as she absently stared into space.

“Veronica? You can’t call this in. We’re not supposed to be here.”

Her gaze met his, her chin jutting out defiantly as the patrol car’s siren crescendoed around the corner. “I have an idea. Trust me, alright?”

Resting his head upon her leg, he closed his eyes. He did trust her. He would trust her. After all, she’d just saved his life.

* * *

Logan’s eyes squinted shut as the paramedic manipulated his hand, assessing for fractures.

“ _Fuuuuuuuck_.”

“I’m sorry, Detective. Can you make a fist?”

Logan was eager to make a fist, alright. His ring finger and pinky complied. His index and middle fingers? Not so much.

“Yeah, you’re going to need an x-ray. Might have a few broken phalanges,” the paramedic concluded, brushing his messy brown hair from his eyes.

“No shit. Look… Stu, is it? Can you just immobilize it for now? I’ll deal with an x-ray later.”

“Sure.”

A knock on the ambulance door was a welcome distraction from the paramedic’s uncaring contortion of his hand into what was swiftly becoming a bulky, tedious splint. 

“Hey, Echolls. How are you feeling?”

Keith Mars was in a sharp navy suit, looking polished despite the drizzle that continued to dampen the evening. Veronica flanked him, tucked beneath a rainbow umbrella and now zipped up in a black bomber jacket that was clearly two sizes too big. _Must be her dad’s_ , Logan guessed.

“It’s nothing Tylenol and scotch can’t cure,” Logan lied.

“He has a concussion and a broken hand,” Stu interjected in a blasé tone, jerking the gauze he wrapped around Logan’s hand just a little too forcefully.

Keith frowned, tilting his head in concern. “Concussions are nothing to mess around with. You should head over to Urgent Care, get a CT.”

“I’ve had worse.” As Keith’s mouth fell open to protest, Logan sighed. “Captain Mars, with all due respect, I’ve had fourteen CT scans in my life and fourteen reasons for them. This one rates maybe in the top seven at best. The CT can wait a few hours.”

Veronica’s hand pressed against her father’s chest, a request for restraint as her pale blue irises shimmered with tears. “I’ll take him on my way home. Why don’t you fill him in on that address we got?”

Logan shot her a reassuring look, sensing her tenacity for learning all she could about a person—coupled with his brief disclosures---had connected a few dots. His abuse was nothing to dismiss, but it was over. He’d survived it. He’d risen above it, proved he was not and could not be broken by it. Veronica didn’t need to worry about him.

Stu waved him away and Logan hopped out of the ambulance, weaving with Keith and Veronica through a small throng of gawkers and officers towards 1170 Liberty Street.

“So, Veronica tells me you put her Introductory Profiling training to work and figured out our suspect probably lived near Goodman,” Keith began, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

“That’s correct,” Logan readily agreed, ignoring the streaking trails from the streetlights guiding their way.

“You come down to the neighbourhood to see if anyone remembers a frequent visitor to his building or if there’s a _library_ where someone might be doing a lot of digging into Dante, and stumble onto this B&E at the Rialto. The suspect takes shots at Logan and he pursues. Veronica circles around to help corral him. He assaults you and holds a gun to your head. Veronica arrives in time to scare him off.”

“That’s what happened. If Veronica hadn’t shown up when she had, he easily could have put a bullet in my head,” Logan admitted. 

Veronica shrugged, tilting the umbrella low. “It’s what you do for a partner.”

“Too bad you’re not sticking around,” Logan murmured. “I’d trust you with my six any day. Even if you’re not good at sharing,” he lightly teased, snatching her umbrella away.

He held it over the two of them, tired of the drizzle, as Keith Mars cleared his throat and halted in front of Doe’s building. “In any case, your _library_ theory gave me an idea I’m certain Veronica did not have herself prior to your arrival in this neighbourhood. It took a strategic call to Marcia Langdon, but we convinced the FBI to provide an Intelligence assist given the urgency and high-profile nature of this case. It’s clear our killer intends to kill four more people in rapid fashion. We don’t have time to waste.”

_Langdon!? She’s the ex-girlfriend?_

Keith edged closer, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “FBI records will reflect we received this intel, oh, _now_. Echolls, do _not_ pull a stunt like my daughter has today in the future. Come to me. We clear?”

“Crystal.”

Adjusting his tie clip, Keith nudged his daughter’s shoulder. “Veronica, where does the asshole live?”

“604. Follow the bullet holes. He took shots at Logan and me in there, too.”

A hesitation. Time stood still: the light reflecting off the gathering puddles seemed to dim, the bustle and din receding around them. Father and daughter stood before Logan, locked in a silent battle of wills. In the end, love triumphed over decorum as Keith pulled her close, kissing the top of her head beneath the limited privacy of the large umbrella.

“You’re gonna cost me what little hair I have left, kiddo.”

“I’m fine, Dad. Not a scratch,” she replied softly. “Wanna see my vest?”

“That’s _not funny_.”

The harsh undertone of Keith’s retort filled in a blank for Logan: _Veronica’s been shot in the line of duty. Damn._ It explained why she’d frozen in the hallway earlier, clammy and ashen as she urged him to abandon her. 

He remembered her words, vulnerable and small as they drove to Dick’s house: _“Some cases change you forever.”_

“Two more days and I’ll be boring with all my books,” she soothed him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a present I’ve wanted to open for hours. Logan?”

Passing the umbrella to Keith, he followed her inside and up the stairs, careful to grip the handrail tightly in case vertigo resurfaced. So maybe the top seven comment he’d made was a lie. Maybe this was a top three. He’d get the damn CT later.

He needed to get inside Doe’s apartment.

“You okay? Really okay?” Veronica asked softly.

“I’ll be fine. Definitely need that CT, but it can wait, I promise. What about you?”

They rounded the landing for the fourth floor. “My knee? A bruise. I’ll skip yoga for a week, ice it.”

“I meant the panic attack I suspect is related to getting shot on the job,” Logan whispered.

Veronica blanched, biting her lower lip. “I… It didn’t pierce…”

“Still hurts, from what I’m told. Still fucking scary.’ His arm stretched out, halting her flight up the final steps. “You don’t have to tell me about it. Just… I’ve been through some things. If you need someone to listen who gets that, you can call me. Any time.”

“Okay. I mean, I’m okay now,” she rambled, fidgeting with the zipper on her father’s coat. “But if I do… okay.”

She was closed up tight now, the vault door slammed shut. Logan sensed, however, he was now entrusted with a few numbers of the combination. Progress.

“Okay. So, let’s go figure out how to catch this asshole, because he unloaded seven bullets in my general direction, and I may harbour hard feelings.”

Veronica laughed darkly. “A minor transgression, but I can see how it might _perturb_ you.”

“ _Disgruntled_ would be my word for it,” Logan countered playfully as he sized up the door, “but let’s not split hairs. May I?”

With a flourish, Veronica bowed and stepped away from unit 604. “You know what? You earned it.”

Backing up against the opposing wall, Logan rushed forward and kicked Doe’s front door with all of the frustration and fury brimming within: at Doe; at this case; at his fucking father, who wouldn’t stop calling; at whoever had shot Veronica; at Celeste and Jake, who were already making Lilly cry. The door splintered in the middle—cheap particleboard, clearly—as the rotting frame snapped. It swung open with a _bang_ , the inside handle lodging firmly in the wall behind it.

“Ta-da!”

“Stay here, I’m clearing it,” Veronica insisted.

“Like hell you are! _Our case. We clear it._ ”

“Your hand—“

“Not my trigger finger. Give it up.”

With a grumble of defeat, Veronica tugged a Maglite from her right pocket—banded in blue on the handle—and passed it to him. “You stay with me, then.”

Logan’s eyes widened as she pulled a second Maglite from the opposing pocket, along with two pairs of Nitrile gloves. “This all fit inside the pockets of that coat?”

“Why else did you think I kept this marshmallow on to huff and puff up all those stairs?” Snapping on her gloves, she passed him a pair and shrugged off the jacket. “It’s way too big for my Dad, so why he has it…”

Flipping on her light, Veronica took the lead, hitting the hallway switch and illuminating a series of small light fixtures dotting the walls. No overhead light, Logan immediately noticed. Veronica unsnapped her holster, but left her gun sheathed as they moved slowly down the corridor, taking stock of Doe’s belongings—or rather, lack thereof. 

No photos. No paintings. The light fixtures were the only adornment on the hideous wallpaper that, up close, was a deep burgundy laced with an intricate gold pattern reminiscent of a creeping trellis vine.

To their right lay a kitchen and they paused briefly, Logan noting the black and white aesthetic, the lack of magnets or any personal effects. No dirty dishes, no bills strewn about. It was as if no one had ever ventured inside.

“Later,” Logan suggested, and Veronica nodded her agreement.

An open doorway spilled into a dark room with a white, glowing cross affixed to the farthest wall. It shone the only light upon the modest black pleather sofa and the small oak coffee table, upon which sat a copy of the Holy Bible, along with a rosary in black and red. Veronica flipped the switch just inside the wall, but no lights engaged, despite the large globe fixture overhead.

“Either he’s let the bulb burn out, or removed it entirely,” Veronica guessed.

“My guess is option 2,” Logan replied, skimming his flashlight along the walls. “You should take a look at this. What lies beyond the doors of his curio cabinets is, shall we say, fucked up?”

Veronica swung her flashlight to the right, edging towards the shadowboxes mounted along the walls. Constructed of cherry wood and measuring one foot wide by three feet high, each featured a tiny, intricate knob with a lock. No key lay within. 

Logan and Veronica studied each in turn, casting the powerful beams of light from front and side angles. A neat row of spaghetti sauce cans, surrounding a tiny Precious Moments figurine of a little girl eating spaghetti, a “Tramp” dog from the Disney film beside her. A St. Christopher’s medal dangled from the left corner, dripping with sauce, or perhaps blood—Logan wasn’t sure. The second box featured a pile of Phoenix Land Trust brochures, soaked in blood. The glass was peppered in news headlines from the REIT scandal years ago, including one condemning his “abysmally short” three year-sentence. 

In the third case, Doe had kept it simple and grotesque: a specimen jar with the severed hand of, presumably, Woody Goodman.

“There’s seven of them… They’re trophy cases.”

“Celebrating his achievements,” Logan agreed bitterly. “What’s this on the fourth one?”

Taped to the fourth case was a receipt for a custom leather piece from Wild Ones Custom Leather. Veronica noted it in her memo book and snapped a photo. “We’ll have to run this down first thing in the morning.”

From the living room, the apartment split off in a T towards two rooms: a bathroom, its doorway ajar, and a room bolted with three locks.

“I don’t know about you,” Veronica murmured, “but suspiciously locked rooms are catnip to me.”

“Yeah, I’m with you on that.”

Doe’s grocery run had clearly been a quick errand, one made in a rush: the bolts were insecure, making entry easy. In here, Veronica found a floor lamp, sparing them a fumbling in the dark. A large spider, unfazed, twitched in its web over the solitary window across from a single bed, dressed in a plain white sheet and a thin blue blanket. Painted in a deep shade of red, the walls were scarcely visible beyond the crammed bookcases jammed with notebooks.

“What the hell?”

Logan reached out, gently tugging one from the nearest shelf and opening it. The notebooks were inexpensive, the kind he’d used in college. In neat printing, often boxed off and annotated in sidebars, were pages upon pages of writing. No line breaks, no paragraphs. Some pages bore headings: _Lust; Sinners; Prideful Ones_.

Logan tilted the page towards Veronica. “Look at this. It’s endless.”

Veronica was examining a book now, equally stunned. “Some of them have pictures. Archaic procedures for curing _sicknesses that caused sinful behaviour_.”

“We could be here reading for a year,” Logan lamented.

“We’ll need a team. I’ll call the Captain and—“

_RING!_

“Is that a phone?”

Veronica’s eyes widened. “Where is it?”

_RING!_

It was too distant to be in Doe’s study for the criminally insane. Logan stumbled into the hallway, craning his ear in search of the source.

_RING!_

Veronica scrambled to the living room, tossing aside couch cushions. “Fuck, where is it?”

_RING!_

He peered into the kitchen, throwing open cupboards, yanking on drawers. Where the hell was the damn phone? Because it was Doe calling. He _knew_ it.

_RING!_

Colder. He was further away. The fucker was slipping from his grasp again.

“Logan! There’s another room back here!”

He followed the sound of Veronica’s voice, boots clomping heavily on the wooden floor as he entered the bathroom and discovered that Doe had knocked out the wall behind it, creating a pseudo-dark room. A clothesline was strung from the beams of what was once a bathroom wall to far corner of the darkroom alcove, with photos neatly clipped to it beneath the glow of a red bulb. An antique desk with a rollaway top stood beside the photo array, a wooden chair tucked beneath it. On the floor, to which Veronica frantically pointed, was an old rotary phone.

_RING!_

Logan dove for the receiver, blinking hard as vertigo spun him. Veronica waved her cell phone at him, mumbling something about it being _on_. He lifted the receiver, holding Veronica’s phone beside the ear piece as it clicked into place: _record it._

“Hello?”

_“I have to say, I’m impressed more and more by you detectives. I didn’t expect you to find me this quickly.”_

“We’re full of surprises,” Logan replied. “John—“

_“No, you’re going to listen to me, detective. We don’t have much time and I’m going to have to make some… adjustments to the schedule now. I’m sorry I had to hurt you today. You understand that my purpose is greater than that action, don’t you? But God works in mysterious ways. I trust in his plan.”_

“Is this his plan? These killings you do?”

_“When it’s complete, all will be understood. All will see. I wish I could say more, but it would ruin the surprise. Farewell, detectives.”_

The line went dead and Logan gently replaced the receiver, handing Veronica her phone. She tapped the screen a few times and the sound of Doe’s voice filled the room.

“Got it. Maybe someone will recognize his voice?” At Logan’s skeptical glare, she sighed. “Yeah, I don’t believe it either. But when we nail his ass, it’ll prove premeditation and the assault on you.”

“Better.” 

Pushing up to his feet, Logan approached the clothesline, casting his light over the images. His stomach lurched at the first: a close-up of the wounds on Richard Casablancas, dagger dug deep into flesh. An action shot. The next, an image of Anders, eyes unseeing. A picture of Goodman, bound, eyes pleading for help. 

The last image offered something the others could not: a flicker of hope.

“Veronica?”

She was in the bathroom, staring down into the bathtub. Her body shuddered beneath the soft light of the fluorescent bulb overhead, her jaw slack in shock. Abandoning his find, Logan moved to her side, staring down into the claw-footed tub in search of answers.

Doe had been developing more photos for his collection. Floating on the surface of a sea of chemicals were a series of black and white images. Logan yelling at the top of a flight of stairs, Veronica in the background. Logan pointing the photographer to the exit. An image of Logan from the bottom of the spiralling staircase, yelling in fury.

“We had him,” Veronica whispered. 

_“I got your picture, pal!”_ a Bronx accent sneered as his headache stepped up from a dull ache to an unrelenting pounding in his skull.

“The photographer at Goodman’s apartment,” Logan realized. “It was him.”  
  
  
[Story Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/074NxDR14f9ZBfXlo8ZaAV?si=JEewyQZ4Rgyw6V-WKiZuwA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so curious to hear ALL of your thoughts on this one! So much happened! MAC! Lilly! The end of Norris and Veronica!  
> The full story of what happened with Meg! The Killer has been SEEN! LoVe are sleuthing and BONDING. Leave me a message below and tell me all of your theories and feelings. 
> 
> I will see you next Saturday when I darken your Fourth of July with a murder...


	7. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING - PLEASE READ
> 
> For those who know the film this story is crossed over with, you know what murder is next. It's the only victim not shown on screen, and with good reason. It's a tough one.
> 
> In approaching this chapter, I struggled with writing it, because this killing involves sexual assault. As a survivor of sexual violence, I naturally don't take such content lightly. I also have always had qualms about certain story choices made with this victim, which I will detail in the end notes.
> 
> I have altered several details here to a) afford more dignity to the victim b) soften the description of events c) reduce the brutality of the crime and d) change the meaning of the scene and events. My beta and I both feel that while it is a tragic event, it's one that accomplishes my goal of elevating the source material.
> 
> That said, even though I have taken care to dodge the specifics and have left the assault very vague, you may want to skip any and all descriptions. I have all the respect and love for that choice, and skipping the few sentences here won't impact your understanding of the plot. If you would like to skip that section, stop reading when Logan hits play on the digital recorder and jump to the bolded and underlined sentence.
> 
> Please also see the end notes, as I explain the alterations I've made to transform the original film in detail.
> 
> YOUR MUSIC THIS CHAPTER...  
> Chrome - Recoil  
> Teardrop - Massive Attack  
> Reasons I Drink - Alanis Morissette  
> Don't Call Home - July Talk

**Saturday**

A light drizzle misted Veronica’s windshield as she parked outside Logan and Lilly’s apartment complex and reached for her coffee in the centre console. The clock on the dashboard informed her that her propensity for punctuality meant she’d turned up five minutes early.

Five minutes she could spend reading from John Doe’s “scriptures”.

Her hand reached around the back of her seat and into her purse, tugging the bundle of scanned sheets free. Forensics were doing their best to lift prints from the scene, including the three hundred or so notebooks crammed onto shelves, but so far, they hadn’t found a single one.

It was bullshit. Who lives in an apartment—eats, sleeps, does their business in the bathroom, even!—and leaves not a _single damn fingerprint_?

“You’ll slip, asshole,” Veronica muttered, gulping her coffee. “And we’ll find you.”

She’d read fifty pages of the guy’s prose so far: flipping books at the scene; flipping pages at the emergency room while waiting for Logan to be treated for his hand and head injury; and this morning, on four hours of sleep while choking down a bagel. Some of his writings were focused meditations on specific sins, often quoting scriptures, literature or including carefully trimmed images from medical texts and classic art reproductions. Some of the entries, however, were far broader in scope, speaking to a mind consumed by an obsession with sin itself.

The page she’d left off on was a rambling diatribe on the disgust Doe felt for the citizens of the city. As Veronica read, she tugged her coat closed, a chill settling into her bones.

**_What sick, sad little puppets they are. See how they dance on their perverted stage, driven by their base desires. Their way is lost. Even if I were to hold up the light, few of them would face its warmth. They prefer the darkness. They crave it. They feed upon it. They laugh as it rots them from the inside._ **

**_I see them, and I see decay. I see flesh rotting off bone, skeletons smiling through cheeks as they choose eternity in flames._ **

**_Their banality does not even entertain me for sport. I was sitting in a coffee shop last week, reading the newspaper. Watching for signs that my message was ready to be received. A woman approached me, trying to make small talk. She thought herself beautiful: her face was thick with make-up, her cheeks too red. She laughed too hard at my jokes._ **

**_I knew what she wanted. I would never give it to her._ **

**_Torn between throwing up on her shoes, such was my disgust with her craven lust, and holding a knife to her throat in hopes of teaching her a lesson about the dangers of pursuing lustful enterprises, I merely laughed in her face until she grew enraged and departed..._ **

A knocking on her window startled her, the pages fluttering to her lap as her head twisted to the right. Logan waved his splinted hand with an exaggerated pout. Chuckling, she tapped the unlock button and let him in.

“You sure you want to work this morning?”

He slid into the passenger seat slowly, Veronica noticing a slight wince as he leaned back against the headrest. “All I need is coffee and for the Tylenol to kick in. I’ve run on less.”

“Lucky for you I stopped and grabbed you one,” she replied, pointing to the centre console as she tucked the pages back in her purse. “Just the way you like it: weird and almond-y.”

“Says the woman who takes her coffee like herself: blonde and vanilla,” he teased. 

Her eyes narrowed as she turned over the engine. “I could throw that coffee out the window, Echolls. Make you run on empty.”

“I’d file a harassment complaint with my captain.”

That fucking smirk, it killed her. “Like I care. I’ve resigned. You’re shooting blanks.”

“ _I never_ shoot blanks, thank you.”

Veronica bit her lip, Lilly’s secret bubbling to the surface. _Stupid choice of words. The stupidest._

“Hey, about last night…” Logan’s splinted hand flopped in his lap. “Thanks for staying with me. Lilly wanted to come to the hospital, but something she ate wasn’t agreeing with her, so I told her to stay home and… well, it was good not sitting alone.”

“Of course. We…” 

She choked on the word: _partners_. It was a cursed word, a death sentence for anyone she dared label with it. It was her condition for return to work, one her father had accepted: _no partner, or no deal_. 

But if she were able to allow herself to trust in the possibility… If she were staying around? She would want one like Logan Echolls.

“You okay?” he gently prodded.

Her hands gripped the wheel tightly as she headed into the downtown core. “What gossip have you heard around the precinct about me?”

Silence. _Oh, he’s heard stories, alright._ That silence was heavy with meaning. Sighing deeply, Veronica signalled for a lane change to avoid a stalled car ahead.

“So that means you’ve heard a version of what happened with Meg.”

His words were soft and warm, an audible shawl draped around her shoulders. “I’d rather hear your version.” 

“I haven’t slept enough for the details. Just… I lost my partner in the line of duty, and no matter what the shrink or my dad says, I will always feel responsible for her.” Confessional was open, words spilling from her parched lips as she stared ahead. “Do you understand why I work alone?”

“You’re working with me on this case.”

“Just this case. And it’s taking everything in me to be calm about it, especially after yesterday.”

“ _Oh_ …” 

Their turn was coming up, as the GPS helpfully reminded her. Not that she’d needed it—she’d barely slept. She’d mapped the route to this damn store at six in the morning. As she checked her blind spots, she noticed Logan’s gaze skirting the floorboards of her car.

_Crap._

“Your coffee’s getting cold,” she reminded him, forcing a weak smile.

“Veronica… Yesterday, when you hit the floor in the hallway… I wanted to stay. You told me to go, but I knew the stories—knew versions of them, anyway… I wanted to stay and help you.”

“And I wanted you to catch Doe. I don’t want to retire with him still out there.” Sensing his skepticism, she patted his shoulder. “I mean that. There was nothing you could have done for me. My only regret is that you could have died chasing him down. So maybe I should have let you stay. I don’t know.”

Logan exhaled loudly, rubbing his head. “Stick together from now on?”

“Yeah.” 

It was probably for the best. Poor guy had a mild concussion and a suspected fracture of two knuckles in his left hand. Solo misadventures were not, in her opinion as his superior, advisable—nor were they something she cared for as his new friend.

 _Because we are,_ she realized, stealing a sideways glance at him. _Friends. He gets me. He’s smart and he doesn’t think I’m too fragile or broken to bother talking to. He treats me like I’m… human. It’s nice._

Logan twisted in his seat, clutching his coffee. “So, where are we headed? We’ve been driving and I have no idea where to.”

“Well, Dad’s passing around the photo you found in Vice to see if we can identify the mystery woman. In the meantime, we’re hitting up the leather shop on that receipt to see what Doe had custom made and hopefully intercept it to piss him off.”

The mystery woman… After the initial shock of discovering the photos of Logan had worn off, he’d remembered the mystery woman on the clothesline of images in the pseudo-office space. The lone person, aside from the two of them, whom Doe had photographed who wasn’t already dead. Taken from afar with a telescopic lens, the images of the Black woman, dressed in a leopard print dress that barely hit mid-thigh, leaning into a car and accepting cash… Well, there was a clear implication, given Doe’s obsessions.

Her dad had vaguely recognized her, suggesting she might be a sex worker who’d run afoul of the law. Hoping the Vice unit had crossed paths with her, Keith Mars was currently circulating her picture in hopes of finding a name or known location.

As for the leather shop, a brief search of the business had turned up an unpleasant bit of trivia that it seemed wise to warn Logan about, now that they were four blocks away.

“There’s something I should tell you about Wild Ones Custom Leather,” she began. “Apparently, the manager is an ex-boyfriend of mine.”

She reached for her coffee, chugging half of it as Logan hummed an upbeat melody. “Define ex. Are we talking one night stand, long term love—“

“How about the kind of guy who dates underage teenage girls when they’re vulnerable?”

Logan whistled low. “Yeah, so a first-grade asshole then. Gotta say, I’m surprised the Captain let that slip by on his watch.”

Veronica chuckled darkly. “Oh, it gets better. Leo D’Amato was a _cop_ when he was dating me.”

Veronica enjoyed telling this story precisely for the flabbergasted reactions she earned. Take, for example, the way Logan spilled coffee on his black pants as it tilted in his hand, his slackening grip betraying his shock. He cursed and swore as she popped the glove box, pointing to napkins.

“It was a shitty decision to date him. No illusions here. All part of my alcoholic mother abandonment slash father run out of office tour. California moms: what’s in the water?” she quipped. “Vodka in the Evian bottle, in my case,” she added.

“At least my mother drank from a glass. She was drunk and unafraid to show it. I’ll give her that much,” Logan mused aloud.

“My father was _not_ happy when he found out, but teenage angst being its defiant best, and me being a private investigator in training, Leo and I found ways to sneak around. It didn’t last long, maybe three months. I got tired of him when he wouldn’t shut up about wanting to get acquainted with my bedroom ceiling.”

Logan’s good hand curled into a fist. “How did he go from a cop to designing leather for serial killers?”

“Lost his job a year later. Huge scandal. Remember the G-String killer? Guy who was strangling girls with a guitar string?” Logan nodded and Veronica continued. “He stole evidence tapes and sold them to the tabloids.”

“Tapes?”

“The way they connected the killer to the victims was by tracing their activity via these ‘Girls Gone Wild’ videos some skeezy guy made at local bars around then. _Those tapes_. Some of those girls were underage, bar hopping with fake IDs. Force fired him immediately.”

Logan huffed loudly as he tucked his coffee back in the console. “And now he’s selling custom leather to serial killers. You have to admire the consistent trajectory. He is _determined_ to go to hell.”

“The Devil won’t even want his sorry ass,” Veronica muttered, swinging her car into a spot two doors down from the shop. “Let’s go see what Doe ordered.”

Wild Ones Custom Leather was a ground level unit that also occupied the basement space, according to Veronica’s contact at City Planning. If she were to take a guess, the downstairs was used for crafting and design, while upstairs served as a showroom and sales floor. As they stepped inside the space, Veronica was immediately struck by the gaudy décor and dim lighting. The garish neon lights adorning dimly-lit corners, the scarcely clothed mannequins, the sheer number of harnesses…

“There’s a distinct lack of non-sexual leather in here,” Veronica murmured.

“It’s all sexual,” Logan replied quietly. “Even the cowboy hats.”

Veronica felt her cheeks flush as a familiar form emerged from behind a burgundy velvet curtain in the rear of the store. His hair was longer, his waves allowed more freedom to spring, but that self-assured smile and lean physique were unmistakable.

“Can I help—Veronica Mars?”

“Lieutenant Mars,” Logan immediately corrected him, flashing his badge. “I’m Detective Echolls.”

Veronica silently delighted at Leo’s brief expression of surprise as he circled around the counter. “Leo D’Amato. You work in leather now?”

“More like business management,” Leo replied with a grin. “Store was in trouble three years ago, so I offered suggestions to make it more viable. Artists do the commissions, I manage the store and work mornings. Keeps my evenings free for my band.”

His band? Veronica fought the urge to roll her eyes. If they were as terrible as they were when she was in high school…

“It’s good to have hobbies,” Logan deadpanned. 

“You should come check us out next week,” Leo continued, ignoring Logan. “We’re playing a set at the Rusty Nail next Friday.”

 _I’d rather step on its namesake_ , Veronica thought as she dug in her purse. “No can do, I’ll be out of town. We’re actually here on urgent business, Leo. Ah!” Pulling a copy of the receipt from her bag, she passed it to him. “We need to know everything about this order and if the item has not been picked up yet, we need to see it immediately.”

Leo’s eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, I know this one. The name sticks out, especially for us cops.”

“Former,” Logan coughed.

Veronica suppressed a snicker as Leo circled the counter and keyed in several commands on an aging Macbook. “Hmm… yep. Custom piece, very unusual. I remember thinking he must be into performance art. Picked it up last night, invoice paid in cash.”

Logan cursed beneath his breath. “He must have come here after he fled the apartment. His accelerated timeline.”

Veronica nodded grimly in agreement. “Do you have a description of the piece he ordered? This may be a murder weapon, Leo.”

He whistled low, running a hand nervously through his dishevelled hair. “Shit, you serious, Veronica? That’s the last thing this place needs. Hey, I can do you one better: Raphael always takes photos of his custom works. Let me just check the shared drive… Alright, yeah, I got it. Sending you a copy to the printer. It’s not the greatest, but it’ll do the job.”

“Can we get the digital file as well?”

“Anything for you,” Leo purred and Veronica cringed. “What email?”

“You know, since I’m retiring, you should send it to Detective Echolls. He’s in charge of this case. You got a card for him?”

Unsurprisingly, it was already in Logan’s hand. He’d already anticipated her deflection and the way he flicked the card in Leo’s direction suggested a warning. 

“Cool. I’ll, uh, get that right over to you.” Leo reached for the printed page behind him, handing it deliberately to Veronica. “Like I said…. Unusual piece.”

Her stomach turned as she stared at the harness strapped to the bare mannequin, noting the scalpel-like protruding blade gleaming from the reflected light of the flash. The position of the harness, the angle of the blade… _Oh my god, is this designed to do what I think it is? Surely it isn’t meant to… enter someone?_

Logan peered over her shoulder, his finger tapping the page angrily. “Do you not have the right to refuse commissions in this place? Why the hell would you make this?”

A diminished Leo, his shoulders slumped, backed away from the desk. “We’ve made weirder…”

“You better hope we find this before it’s used,” Logan uttered, spinning on his heel. “Let’s go.”

Veronica hurried behind him, tucking the photo in her bag. “What the _hell_? It’s what I think it is, isn’t it?”

Logan grimaced as his shoulder checked the door, holding it open for her. “Definitely. We need to find our mystery woman. I think we need to put her picture on TV. I know, I know, we think broadcasting her face might send Doe after her faster, but he’s clearly on the move.”

“I agree. Every minute wasted—“

_RING!_

Veronica’s work phone pealed loudly from her pocket as she jogged to the driver’s side of her Jetta. _Her father_. She threw the call on speaker as she slid into the driver’s seat and jammed her key in the ignition.

“Give us good news,” she pleaded. “You’re on speaker.”

_“You want the good news or the bad first?”_

Logan’s seatbelt clicked into place, the sound deafening as Veronica’s world ground to a halt. Because she knew what her father meant. She felt it in her core, as sure as the innate dread had filled her when she’d stood over Duane Anders’ body in that damn kitchen five days ago. 

They’d lost this round.

“Did we ID her?” Veronica asked quietly.

_Does she have a name? I can’t leave behind another Jane Doe._

_“Loretta Cancun. Exotic dancer, occasionally does extras. Most recent employment, The Landing Strip near the airport. Vice busted her a year ago for escort work for rich travellers.”_

Veronica leaned back against the headrest, imagining horrific scenes involving the woman and the hideous device Leo’s employee had crafted. “And the bad news?”

_“You’re going to need to head over to The Landing Strip immediately. Morning crew came in to one hell of a scene. I’ve sent Forensics over there.”_

Veronica’s hand struck the steering wheel in frustration as her father continued in his calm, steady tone, telling her he would text the address of the club to her phone. She heard Logan thank him as she fought the urge to scream, to drive her fist through the windshield.

_They were so close. So close to saving her._

_“Veronica?”_ Her father’s use of her first name jarred her from her angry reverie. _“He left a survivor.”_

* * *

Logan’s feet tapped on the hard plastic seat of the chair as he sat on the steel table in Interrogation room four, staring at the grey stone wall before him. A hardened chunk of gum, stuck between two brick, marred the surface, spearmint green flecked with months of dirt. It reminded him of the hallways of the coroner’s offices, where just an hour ago, he’d stared down at a familiar face, listening to Angie Dahl recite cause and manner of death.

_“…. Severe blood loss… wounds to the pelvic and abdominal regions…. Internal lacerations….”_

He’d taken a copy of her report, scarcely skimming it over. Captain Mars could read it. He would read it tomorrow. Or Veronica would. Although, after seeing the way she’d left this room twenty minutes ago, her entire body shuddering with a mixture of rage and regret…

_We failed. We fucking failed._

Veronica was upstairs, debriefing Keith on the witness interview. She’d told him to wait here. To listen to the interview, if he wanted to, or wait until tomorrow. 

“But we’re getting a drink,” Veronica had told him, her blue eyes glistening with tears. “You’re coming with me, right?”

Of course he was. He was, silently, her partner until retirement. They didn’t need a label to define their bond. And so, he would wait here for her, and he would listen to the interview and understand what had rocked her foundations. It had to be more than their mutual acquaintanceship with the victim. He understood her better than that. 

His hand reached out beside him, reluctantly pressing play on the digital recorder. Listening, as the sole survivor in Doe’s string of killings stammered through the basics: name, address, age. Veronica’s voice was soft, brimming with empathy, as she steered the conversation towards the horrors that had unfolded in the VIP room of The Landing Strip.

_“The club closed at three according to the manager. Were you still there?”_

_“Yes. I always stayed until close.”_

_“Who else was there?”_ Veronica asked.

_“Janie, Rita, Cody… they all left. Then, it was just us. Or we… We thought it was just us…”_

A sob, loud and long. Body-wracking. Logan heard a shuffling noise, a crumpling. The thermal blanket, he guessed. They’d had to take away the blood-soaked clothing, replace it with PD tee and shorts.

 _“I know this is painful, and so hard to remember. Take your time,”_ Veronica soothed.

_“We… W-we were gathering our things in the VIP room. Clothes…. Dressing… And he was there. He-he had a gun. There was a gun. THERE WAS A GUN!”_

More shuffling and wailing, and soft footsteps. Veronica’s voice, when heard again, seemed to have changed positions in the room. It was louder now, closer to the microphone. Had she moved to comfort the witness? 

Of course she had.

_“He had a gun. It was pointed at you?”_

_“Y-yes. He… Oh God, there was a box…. That THING… He… He told him that I was a whore. That I needed to b-be punished for my sins….WHAT WAS HE THINKING? You tell me what that man was thinking? Lying to a man with a gun…”_

Logan knew what he was doing. He would have done the same thing.

_“What lie did he tell, Loretta?”_

_“He said…. He said I was the top. That I… put things in him when we had sex. But I wasn’t. I WASN’T!”_ She sobbed loudly, a loud strike that reverberated soon following. _“I wasn’t worth that… Wasn’t worth that…”_

_“What happened next, Loretta?”_

_“He… he…. He put that thing on me… Oh god, what the hell was that thing? And he told me to… There was a gun in my mouth, the barrel was in my mouth, OH GOD, and he was l-looking up at me and he said, he said, ‘It’s okay baby, I love you’ and that monster m-made me kill him. He made me kill him with that… that…“_

**Loretta broke down in incoherent sobs as Veronica whispered reassurances.** Logan stopped the playback, burying his head in his hands. 

He’d known Cliff McCormack as an inexpensive defense attorney, the kind you hired for a quick DUI when your assets were frozen during an emancipation trial. Dick had passed his card around the fraternity, Logan was so impressed. He remembered telling Cliff he was too smart to be an ambulance chaser, that he could try tougher cases. Cliff had smirked and said he enjoyed the short hours and pissing off cops in favour of the underdogs.

In his last minutes, that quick mind had saved the woman he loved, and he’d paid the ultimate price. 

“You ready?”

Logan lifted his head, finding a weary Veronica leaning on the doorframe. “I could definitely drink.”

“Let’s go.”

* * *

The blues bar was a favourite of her father’s, a tiny joint tucked away near his first city apartment on the west end. He’d taken her here three years ago, shortly after Meg passed away. The bartender, Michael, had nodded and hurried over with a double of Loch Nevin Special Reserve and, seeing Veronica’s mute, haggard state, had swiftly brought another.

Its older clientele, dark walls and intimate booths in the rear afforded patrons deep conversations or the ability to quietly wallow over liquor—precisely the atmosphere the night called for.

Leading Logan inside, she waved to Michael behind the worn oak of the bar. “What’s your poison?” she asked.

“A pint is fine. I try not to drink anything heavy now,” Logan replied softly.

“Michael! It’s been a rough one,” she called out. “My usual and a pint of something special for my friend?”

The barrel-chested man with greying hair held up a finger with a knowing smile. “I have just the thing.”

Scanning the rear of the bar, Veronica spotted an open booth in the far left corner and bee-lined for it, eager to hide from the world behind the tall divider walls padded in royal blue leather. Anxiety and a need for control drove her to the rear seat, affording her a view of all exits, leaving Logan with his back to the door. Veronica noticed a flicker of hesitation cross his features and considered a change of seating.

 _You’re not the only one with demons_ , she admonished herself. 

“I’m sorry, did you want—“

“No, it’s fine,” Logan insisted.

“It’s not. And I know, because it’s not for me.” Using her slight frame to her advantage, she slipped past Logan and slid into the front seat instead. “Take the back.”

“Veronica—“

“You have my six, right?”

He stared at her with an intensity that stole her breath. “Always.”

Busying herself with shedding her coat to avoid _whatever the hell that emotion bubbling up inside her_ was, Veronica was relieved when Michael arrived with a double shot of Loch Nevin, neat, and a brimming pint of a deep reddish-amber liquid for Logan.

“Here you go, Veronica. Thirty Year Reserve. And for you, a small-batch raspberry cider. Trust me on this one,” he added at Logan’s skeptical raise of his brows.

“Michael knows what he’s doing. He’s a bit of a matchmaker with booze,” Veronica clarified, reaching for her glass.

“Well, I do like raspberries…” Reaching for his glass, Logan lifted it up to lightly clink it against hers before taking a tentative sip. “Huh… That’s really good. Not sweet at all. The berries kill the acidity of a typical cider.”

“So, no bite?”

“Uh-uh. It’s not sour, but it’s still tart. Still has that kick that’ll keep you coming back.”

Veronica nearly choked on her scotch as Logan smirked, those intense brown eyes of his locked on her, seemingly studying her reaction. _Not sour, but tart, Echolls?_ She couldn’t deny that her temperament was hardly tame. 

She’d take it as a compliment. 

She couldn’t help but notice that her choice in drink reminded her of Logan: a flavour rich in hidden undertones, with a smooth overall finish, it held secrets best understood through contemplative consumption. 

_Freud would have a field day with this_.

“You okay?”

“Hmm?” Veronica blinked hard, dispelling her Introductory Psychology musings. “If I answer no, can we leave it at that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m not okay either. I listened to the interview. Part of it… Enough.” Logan shook his head sadly. “Angie said she’s never seen anything quite like it on the table.”

“She’s been saying that about all of Doe’s vics,” Veronica spat angrily. “This guy… I can’t get a line on him. Usually, I can hone in on a killer, dig into his or her head.”

“Maybe it’s because the inside of this guy’s head is too terrifying to step inside,” Logan mused, sipping his cider.

“We knew Cliff. I… Cliff used to make it a game. Show up at Dad’s office, jokingly leave a file _for Dad_ but really, it would be a softball he thought I’d enjoy.” Veronica’s chest tightened, thinking of his warm baritone that reminded her of a radio announcer. “He always treated me like I was a good investigator…”

“You’re a great investigator.”

“Am I?” she snapped. “How did I not think to action that receipt sooner? Or blast Loretta’s face on the media, and damn what my father was worried about? A man is dead, a woman is going to need therapy for the rest of her life, and this guy is _walking around_ , choosing someone else to punish as a self-appointed judge, jury and executioner. We have forty-eight hours to catch him, Logan.”

“Because you feel you need to catch him before you go,” he concluded.

“Yes!”

“Because you can’t leave it unsolved, or leave it to me.”

“This isn’t… I know you can solve this.” And she did; she knew he was as dogged and resourceful as she was. “I just need to see this through before I leave.”

Logan sat his glass down, the thick glass banging against the chipped oak table. “And why _are_ you leaving, Veronica? I’ve spent the last six days trying to figure it out, and I can’t wrap my head around it.”

“I—“

“The real answer,” Logan interrupted, leaning forward. “Not the one you give your father. Not the one on your resignation letter. The truth. No judgments.”

 _No judgements? Ha._ That was a promise he couldn’t keep. Veronica’s finger traced around the rim of her glass as she stared at the liquor within. Her throat was parched, but it was a thirst she knew no drink could sate.

“Meg would be here if it wasn’t for me. If I’d just done so many things differently… if I’d controlled the call, if I’d managed the threat… she would have had a chance.” Her fingernails flicked at the scraped and dented surface of the table, unable to bear the look in his eyes. “That kind of guilt, it kills your passion for this job, so what’s the point? I’m no better than Lamb, or Ratner. I’m a fuck-up in other ways. The ways that get people killed in the field. Plus,” she added, lifting her glass, “Dad never wanted me to _be a cop_ so now he gets the lawyer daughter he always wanted, and I can win in court instead.”

As she knocked back half of her drink, Logan shook his head vigorously. “No, no, I don’t believe that. I think you _want_ to believe that. I think you want everyone else to believe it. You want us to say, ‘You’re right. You’ve been through some shit, and you know, you’re a liability in the field. Law school is lucky to have you.’ But I won’t say that, Veronica. I don’t believe it,” he repeated emphatically, taking a swig of cider. 

Her heart thumped wildly against her ribcage. “You don’t believe me.”

“No, I don’t. You wanna know why?”

“You’ve known me six days but you know me better than I know myself? Sure, this should be entertaining,” she retorted, slumping in her seat.

Logan huffed in seeming disbelief. “The whiplash with you, Veronica. I’m competent, I know nothing. Make up your mind.”

Folding her arms over her chest, she waited silently for him to elaborate on why she was so full of shit, even as a tiny voice sing-songed in the back of her skull: _He’s onto you, he’s onto you…_

“The day you found the message behind Anders’ fridge, you remember that? Do you remember the way you barrelled up the precinct stairs, practically knocking over Enbom and shaking that glass vial like it was the key to a kingdom? I do. I _felt you_ before I saw you. You were a force, Veronica. You had _passion_. You didn’t turn that case over to me because you didn’t want it; you turned it over because you knew if you kept it and couldn’t wrap by Sunday, you’d blow off Stanford to solve it.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she protested weakly.

“I asked for your help after dinner Tuesday night. It’s Friday, Veronica. Where are you now? You are chasing this case, because _you care_. Because you’re fucking great at this job.” His hand cupped her chin as she turned away, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You belong in the field, not in a courtroom. You know it.”

“I can’t do it anymore.” A shaky whisper, his hand pushed away.

“Yes, you can. You’ve been doing it all week, with me.”

“I don’t trust my instincts anymore,” she confessed. “When I draw my weapon… I’m back there, Logan.” 

Her hand shot out in search of her whiskey, bringing it to her parched lips. It did nothing to soothe the sandpaper scratch on her tongue.

“When you got shot,” Logan clarified.

“Yeah.” She finished her drink, signalling Michael for another. “It was when Meg was killed. If I hadn’t…”

Logan nodded sadly. “I’m not going to feed you the usual platitudes. The _hindsight is twenty-twenty_ lines to ease your survivor guilt because I know the force would have stuck you in therapy. What I am going to offer you, as someone who spent years second-guessing himself, wondering if he could have saved a life, is something simpler.”

“And that is?”

“Forgiveness. For being human. For going to work that day. For letting Meg make her own choices that _also_ affected how everything turned out.”

Michael moved quickly: a fresh double of scotch appeared, sparing her from further words, spoken with such kindness, such empathy, she wanted to scream at Logan. Throw things, tell him he was an asshole. Tell him he was wasting his breath, his concern, his energy. 

_I’m not worth it._

“You don’t understand,” she murmured.

“I watched my father beat my mother for fourteen years,” Logan uttered. “He beat me for ten of them. When he wasn’t beating us, he was manipulating us, mentally abusing us, or in my mother’s case, hiding her money to keep her prisoner. He would threaten to beat me to keep her in line. I knew all of this, Veronica. I knew she was drinking.” He laughed darkly. “California moms: what’s in the water? Gin. Rum. Chardonnay when she didn’t care to hide it anymore.”

Veronica’s hand slid across the table, resting loosely on his splinted arm. “Logan, I can’t imagine…”

“The day she… She said she couldn’t take it anymore. How much clearer could she be? I should have gone after her. But I didn’t.”

“What she chose to do, that wasn’t your fault,” she assured him. “She was in a lot of pain.”

“I know that. I still wish and feel I could have done more, but I chose to forgive myself.” His splinted hand flopped gently atop hers. “That’s what you need to do. And until you can, I’m going to forgive you.”

“Logan…”

A gentle rub of polyester and Velcro on her skin as Logan’s immobilized hand shifted. His pinky hooked hers, reminding her of a child’s promise. _Pinky swear_.

I forgive you, Veronica.” 

Sucking in a deep breath, she surrendered to his premise that his proffered forgiveness could one day permeate her fractured heart and will it to co-sign. A tiny nod was, mercifully, enough to satisfy him, for she’d found herself without words.

Raising his pint glass to his lips, Logan took a long swig. “You know what this night needs?”

“A mulligan?”

“A game of _Let’s Pretend I’m Not A Traumatized Fuck-Up._ What do normal people do on Friday night?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Veronica replied. “I’m not exactly the life of the party. You?”

Logan scoffed. “Have you seen my friends?”

Veronica sipped her scotch, remembering shirtless Dick. “Fair, but extenuating circumstances.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Take him about two notches less drunk and that’s a typical vacation in Mexico. He was refreshingly clothed.”

“Oh god! Remind me not to come to Mexico with you then.”

“And who said you’re invited?” Logan teased. “Seriously, next time we go to Australia? You should tag along. It’s beautiful there. You can relax on the beach with Lilz and Katrina while Dick and I surf and DK… well, he’ll _try_ to surf.”

“Who’s Katrina?”

“Donut’s fiancée. They met at that non-profit he works with. Something to do with using IT and linguistics to analyze social media to predict and understand disease outbreaks.”

Veronica giggled, shaking her head. “I still find it hilarious you two call him Donut. Does he ever get mad about it?”

“You would _think_ he would, but he finds it _endearing_.” Logan finished his cider, waving to Michael for a refill. “Of course, only Lilz and I can get away with it. Dick tried it once and got a death glare.”

“Dick has a tendency to bring that out in people,” Veronica told him. “He’s basically the human equivalent of anchovies.”

“Well, when he tries to do Movember, his moustache kinda looks pathetic and hairy like one.”

Veronica knocked back her second drink, knowing Michael would bring a refill without asking. Another round swiftly appeared and with it, comfortable chatter—the kind that Veronica wagered normal coworkers fell into over drinks. Logan revealed his FBI ambitions, initially driven out of a childhood dream of arresting his father, now fuelled by genuine passion. Veronica, in turn, delighted in sharing the tale of Lamb’s FBI aspirations, and how he’d bungled things so badly on an interstate kidnapping case, the Feds had politely told him to aspire to sheriff of a very small town instead. Small towns had led to talk of the oblivious guy who’d trailed her like a puppy the summer before Stanford while she waited tables at Java The Hut, complete with obnoxious mix CDs.

“His name was _Piss?_ ”

“Piz!” she corrected, laughing heartily. “And he was the worst. Floppy-haired idiot, wouldn’t take no for an answer until Norris came by and mentioned his collection of weapons.”

“Pez? Like the candy dispenser?”

Veronica opened her mouth to correct him, but the mischievous twinkle in his eye made it clear he was intentionally screwing with her. Swatting his arm, she finished her drink instead.

“Floppy hair, huh? Did his neck flop open? Spit out bland candy?”

“You’re free to make out with him and find out. I think he works at NPR now.”

Logan groaned. “Wait! Is he the guy who did that masturbatory ten-part special on My Pretty Pony and Desmond Fellows?”

She slapped the table in surprise, laughing. “Oh my God, he was _obsessed with them_. He put two of their songs on one of his mix CDs he left at the Hut for me.”

“That series was _so bad_ , Lilz, Duncan and I made up a drinking game for it. I’m not kidding. We got plastered every Wednesday night.” His hand slipped in his pocket, extracting a wad of cash. “Let me tell you something, Veronica. That guy, he never stood a chance with you.”

“Obviously.”

The endless pestering, the _nice guy_ façade that felt like just that: a façade. An act. Like he was looking for a sweet blonde to hang off his arm. She wasn’t his Dream Girl Barbie to collect. 

“No, I mean… Pez Candy was chasing a woman who doesn’t exist. And that’s a shame, because the real Veronica? She’s worth knowing.”

Veronica felt her cheeks flush as she mumbled a thank you and searched for her wallet. 

“My treat,” Logan insisted, rising to his feet. “Grab me a coffee tomorrow.”

“Sure. Of course.”

She was flustered. _Why the hell am I flustered?_

Slipping her jacket on, she grabbed her purse and stood up, grateful she’d had the foresight to park her car at home because three doubles in, her vision was decidedly hazy. It made for a challenge in summoning an Uber home, one she managed through muscle memory and a concerted stare at the screen as Logan circled back to their earlier discussion on classic films.

“I still can’t believe you haven’t seen _Easy Rider_.”

“And I can’t believe you haven’t seen _Brick_ when you loved _Knives Out._ It’s blasphemy! I feel like I should tweet Joseph Gordon-Levitt and demand he chastise you.”

“I met him once,” Logan replied casually as a black sedan pulled up. “He’s short.”

“He’s _short_. You met JGL and your commentary is, he’s short?” Veronica held her phone up to Logan, tired of squinting. “Does the license plate match?”

“It matches. Come on, let’s get you home.”

“Why are you fine?” 

She was whining. It was a terrible habit, a drunken habit. But she’d only had three drinks… on an empty stomach, _shit_.

“You must have missed the part where I switched to a cranberry juice,” Logan replied, holding open the car door. “We skipped dinner. I suggest ordering pizza when you get in.”

She slid into the backseat and frowned. “Maybe I have food at home.”

“You’re a single cop about to move to another city. No, you don’t.”

Asshole. He was right, though: she was down to a box of Cheerios and half a carton of milk, and various condiments that were likely expired.

“Thank you for coming out tonight. I needed to not… go home.”

Logan secured his seatbelt with a soft _click_ and pointed to hers. “It’s okay. I get it.”

They rode the ten minutes in silence, Veronica resting her forehead against the cool glass of the window in a desperate search for relief. It was a comfortable silence, one born of a silent agreement, a shared understanding and need for reflection. In her head, she thought of Cliff’s smile, and how he wanted to give that to Loretta to remember in his last minutes. She thought of Australia, of having friends who understood what it was to be damaged but trying, to dare to thrive _in spite of it_. She wanted to see the Gold Coast, see a different beach, one that didn’t bear the bloodstains of her memory

Logan walked her to her apartment door, adamant at seeing her safely home. Her purse dangled loosely at her side as they took the elevator up. Her keys jangled in her left hand as she watched the floors ascend.

“Veronica?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I offer you some advice?”

She leaned against the elevator wall with a crooked smile. “You mean, besides watching _Easy Rider_ and ordering a pizza?”

Logan chuckled. “Those were _recommendations_.”

The door opened with a chime, spilling them onto her floor like gleaming marbles—cerulean blue and deep chestnut. 

“Alright, advise me,” she prompted him, staggering down the hall.

His arm looped through hers, steadying her gait. “Look, I understand why you think going back to Stanford is the right idea. But on our first day, you told me how miserable you were there. You quit law school for a reason, Veronica.”

“You’re sounding a lot like my father,” she grumbled.

“Go to law school, don’t. It’s up to you.” They were in front of her door now and she halted abruptly, jamming her key at the lock. “But go because _you want to_ , not because you’re running away from a battle I know you can win.”

Who did he think he was, seeing through her like this? What gave him the _fucking right_? As quickly as her anger ignited, it burned to ash, leaving nothing in its wake but an ember of admiration and a hunger for empathy she’d extinguished years ago, deeming herself unworthy.

“What’s done is done,” she murmured.

“Macbeth,” Logan replied softly. “I have a better one for you: _‘We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.’_ Plato.”

Unsettled by the intensity of his gaze and a magnetic pull within her chest, Veronica blurted out a goodnight and hurried inside, biting her lip as punishment for the unacceptable, fleeting thought of kissing Logan Echolls.

[Story Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/074NxDR14f9ZBfXlo8ZaAV?si=QjlyKTLeSM6wjpcuocP8kw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need a tissue or hugs, I offer them to you. 
> 
> For those who don't know the film Se7en, or can't recall the original Lust killing, a recap of it: a nameless prostitute is murdered via rape by a nameless John who has paid for her services in a "house of ill repute". The harnessed weapon's blade is... much more brutal than that depicted in this chapter. It has always bothered me that she has no name, and is repeatedly called a whore in the film. 
> 
> When choosing my transposed victims for this story, I knew I would use Loretta Cancun, as she is a memorable and beloved character and we would care for her. I knew Cliff would be our "john" because I wanted someone who knew her. I did not, however, feel right exactly about the scene.
> 
> I tried to think of an alternate representation of Lust as a killing. Nothing quite worked until I decided I would make it an act of self-sacrifice and love. I would gender reverse the scene, having the woman survive because her "john" - in actuality, her boyfriend - would present himself to be killed in her place.
> 
> Cliff dies a hero. Loretta lives. Doe ultimately, unbeknownst to him, does not actually achieve what he planned, having been deceived.
> 
> It felt better in spirit, even if I was crying while writing Cliff's demise. I was having drinks with Logan and Veronica.
> 
> Now that we're all devastated, leave a review if you like and if you're an early bird, get ready: part one of Sunday posts THIS SUNDAY, courtesy of Trope-A-Palooza.


	8. Sunday:  Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have reviewed so far, thank you for your kind words regarding the last chapter. It means a lot to know that I did what I set out to do, even if I broke all of our hearts doing it. 
> 
> Courtesy of Trope-A-Palooza, a bonus chapter this weekend. The first half of Sunday... featuring the appearance of a beloved character, a fun cameo and an Easter egg from another TV series. 
> 
> Your music selections for this chapter:  
> Fresh Blood - Eels  
> Code Red - Tori Amos

**Sunday**

He watched her chest rise and fall, the breaths shallow and erratic. His hands gripped the black satin sheets, tugging them up around her slender frame and tucking them carefully beneath her chin. Her limbs twitched erratically and he sighed. 

Poor little butterfly, pinned on the board. She would soar no more.

“You have no one to blame but yourself,” he admonished her firmly, smoothing the pink duvet over her lithe form as she gurgled beneath the heavy layers of gauze.

His resolve had weakened last night. He’d offered this one a way out, a means of atonement. He understood the reason he’d wavered, of course. A mortal weakness he could not afford if his purpose was to be fulfilled.

A quick circuit of the space he’d inhabited for ten hours, careful eyes seeking: erasing the evidence; gathering his tools; and leaving the scene in a state meant to infuriate the detectives, but also intrigue them. His index card, written at home, tacked easily through the cheap plaster walls of the condo, directly beneath letters neatly scrawled in bright, thick red. 

He bent over the body in the bed, slipping two fingers into the curve where the jugular thrummed its lively beat. He smiled at the stillness he found.

Fingers pressed her thumb against the send button of a pre-dialled phone and he waited for a response. One ring, two… _My, how tardy they are!_ A person could die waiting for help in this city.

_“911, what’s your emergency?”_

“I‘ve gone and done it again.”

_“Done what, sir?”_

He laughed darkly. “Ask Detective Echolls.”

Dropping the phone on the bed, he left the line active as he walked calmly out of the condo and disappeared into the early morning light. A faceless man in a city too large to care, too large to see.

_You will see. Soon, you will all see… And you will never be able to deny me again._

* * *

Soft lips pressed to his neck, moving down his back. Gentle, but needy, mirrored by fingertips skimming along his chest, swiftly heading south. 

“Hmm…”

“You up, lover?” Lilly purred, spooning against him.

“You tell me,” Logan mumbled sleepily.

A wandering hand slid beneath his boxers, gripping him firmly. “Getting there…”

“Lilz—“

“Shh.” Slow, steady strokes, and he was more than getting there—she had the full attention of at least _part_ of him. “I’ve barely seen you all week. I miss you. Even your morning breath.”

“Even that, huh?” 

“Mmmhmm.”

His head turned over his shoulder, finding her lips eagerly awaiting capture. His hand cradled her cheek as sweet, slow kisses deepened, grew insistent. Her hand pressed down on his left shoulder, forcing him onto his back, and Logan chuckled as Lilly wasted no time in swinging her leg over his hips, straddling him.

“You driving today?”

“Doesn’t matter if I’m on the bottom, I’m still in charge, babe.” 

Lilly’s honey-blonde waves glowed in the trickle of sunlight cutting through the sheer curtains, the messy locks tickling his nose as she leaned down to kiss him hard. His hands instinctively gripped her hips, grinding her against him.

“I’d like to challenge that,” he growled playfully.

“Once I convince you to let your lieutenant come play with us,” Lilly cooed, caressing his cheek, “your days of being boss are through.”

Logan shook his head in disbelief. “You are _still_ on about that?”

“What? She’s _hot_ , she’s got _your number_ , don’t you even deny it, and she pings my queer-dar.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Lilly winked. “It’s been so long since we had a third. I think she’s an excellent candidate.”

“I’m not having this discussion.”

Lilly’s hips bucked, aligning their bodies in an excruciatingly alluring way. “And why, pray tell, not?”

Logan groaned as Lilly bit her lip, fully aware of her appeal. “For starters, she’s my boss. And every time we’ve tried to add a steady guest star or go poly, it’s imploded.”

His mind drifted to Veronica, her hair in loose curls. Smiling at Lilly. At him. He imagined her blouse unbuttoned just a little further… _STOP._

“Our poly forays failed because _you_ weren’t into the third,” Lilly countered. “You were placating my crushes on Isobel and Cara. But Veronica is basically a female you, with a twist of _me._ ”

At the word _twist_ , Lilly lowered herself onto Logan with a contented sigh, gyrating her hips in that way that rolled his eyes back every damn time.

“She’s not your boss tomorrow night,” Lilly whispered in his ear. 

“You’re very persistent with this idea,” he panted as their bodies fell into a rhythm. “Why?”

“We’ve always…. _fuck_ … fantasized…” Lilly’s hands gripped his shoulders tightly, her fingernails digging into his bare flesh. “I like this one. Don’t you?”

A pang of guilt struck him as he recalled his late-night of drinking with Veronica—and the overwhelming urge he’d had to hold her outside her apartment door. _Fantasy is one thing, but Lilly’s right: I never felt more than a passing attraction for Isobel or Cara._

_Veronica? It feels like when I met Lilly, only… different._

His splinted hand wrapped around her neck, pulling her close. Her breath was hot on his ear as he closed his eyes and for one fleeting, guilty moment, imagined Veronica was on top of him, her head tossed back in ecstasy as she rode him. 

_Holy shit, what is wrong with me?_

Logan’s eyes snapped open and he focused his energy on Lilly’s pleasure, slipping his hand between them and coaxing her over the edge. He hummed happily as she cried out loudly and slumped against his chest. Lilly’s mouth pressed breathless kisses to his heart as he wrapped his arms around her and peaked, murmuring loving words in her ear.

Lilly exhaled loudly, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “Mmm, I missed this. Can we stay in bed all morning? Lazy Sunday?”

“Maybe not all morning, but I’ll stay as long as I can,” he murmured, brushing her hair back. 

“Good.” Her head tilted upwards, resting her chin on his collarbone. “That was… incredible.”

He couldn’t argue with her. It was the best it had been in a while: intense, yet intimate. 

“You were totally thinking of Veronica, weren’t you?”

“Lilly, no—“

“Liar!” She giggled, dancing her fingers along his chest. “Like I mind! Clearly I see the possibilities. Just wait until I tell her how _feisty_ it made you in bed.”

“Lilly, _no_!” His cheeks burned with embarrassment. “You planted the idea. Like a celebrity fantasy… You know, that time we talked up bringing home Saoirse Ronan from that Vanity Fair party we crashed. That’s all.”

“That’s all, huh? So you’re all about me?”

“Want me to prove it?”

Twisting her hair over her shoulder, she leaned in to kiss him softly. “Show me how much you love me, Lo.”

A kiss blossomed to gentle teeth, tugging on her lip. Hands, roaming, cupping eagerly. He was seconds from suggesting she straddle herself somewhere higher on his torso when it happened: his work phone rang. Lilly groaned loudly as he waved it off, hooking his good arm around her waist.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” he murmured, nipping her shoulder.

Ten rings later, they conceded it was very much something and Logan reluctantly answered. Doe had struck again, and in a shift from his usual strategy, he’d phoned his crime in.

_“He named you in the call, Logan. This is personal now,”_ Keith Mars said. _“I’m very concerned. We need this guy off the streets.”_

As he hung up the call, his phone pinged with the address of the scene—and Lilly pouted, pulling the sheet over herself.

“No more time to play today,” she lamented. “It’s okay. I know the job.”

Logan hesitated, staring at the phone. “Not how we’d like to, no. But I can’t leave you this unhappy…”

“It’s okay, you have to— _OH!”_

That was the beautiful thing about a petulant Lilly Kane: she was somewhat oblivious to the world around her, including her boyfriend slipping beneath the sheets, in search of _breakfast_ …

* * *

Veronica massaged her temples as she rode the elevator to the tenth floor of the Rosebud Residential Tower, begging for her Tylenol to kick in. While following Logan’s advice to soak up her whiskey with pizza (and water) had helped, she’d still rolled out of bed at the sound of her father’s phone call with a pulsing headache.

She’d also arisen with a renewed sense of obligation. A compromise. Instead of heading out to Stanford a month early to relax and re-orient herself prior to the start of the semester, she’d informed her father she would be staying on to assist with the Doe case.

It was what Meg would want her to do.

The elevator door chimed—softly, she was certain, but inside her skull, it might as well have been the clanging of cloister bells. Grumbling bitterly, she made her way to unit 1010, where a flurry of uniformed officers and Forensics technicians were moving swiftly in and out. Her father stood sentinel outside the door, holding up a hand as she approached.

“There’s something you need to know before you head inside,” he began.

Veronica grimaced, adjusting her navy blue blouse. “How bad is it?”

Leaning in, her father whispered, “You know this one, honey.”

Her heart skipped a beat as she studied her father’s concerned expression. “It’s not… It’s not _him_ , right?”

_Norris lives in Venice. He wouldn’t move. He loves that damn boardwalk…_

“No, I wouldn’t have let you come here if it was him,” he replied swiftly. “But it’s a classmate from Neptune High.” Her father held up a driver’s licence in a small plastic bag. “A family we’re very acquainted with.”

Veronica’s breath hitched in her throat. _OH._ Now she understood her father’s words of caution. They would need to tread lightly, let Logan take lead on the scene in every way. Their history with the family was… complicated, to say the least. 

After all, there weren’t many elites in California her father had investigated as murder suspects.

“Does Logan know?”

“I’ll leave it to your discretion.”

Veronica sighed. “I need more Tylenol for this.”

As she pivoted to head inside, her father caught her arm. “Cliff’s service is next Saturday morning. Brooks Memorial Home.”

_Fuck._ It struck her in the gut, the all-too-recent memory of his loss. Screw the Tylenol; she needed another shot of whiskey. Brain overrode heart as her father’s words registered and something clicked.

“Brooks? That place is… expensive. Celebrities use it.”

Keith managed a half smile. “An _anonymous benefactor_ offered to pay for his expenses. I have a theory.”

_Logan._ His millions hard at work, she assumed. Repayment for those youthful missteps Cliff had assisted with, or something more? Either way… it was a kind thing to do.

Veronica wove past a technician dusting a front landing table and entered the condo, immediately struck by the contrast between this scene and the others they’d encountered this week. Sunlight streamed in from floor to ceiling windows, bathing the white walls and plush, pale pink carpet in a warm glow. The entryway was sparsely decorated in framed prints of California beach scenes and sunsets in striking shades of burnt orange and deep blue. The furniture was sleek and modern, black and whites with “beachy blue” accents.

A decorator’s idea of a home.

The only personal touches were the framed portraits dotting a shelving unit in the sitting room: cheerleaders posed in pyramid formation; homecoming court, all aglow; a group of friends laughing on the slopes in Aspen. The walls were a tribute to the accomplished career of a B-tier model: fashion shoots; runaway poses; a photo session involving a twisted take on a slumber party for Tyler Shields. 

A lot of _Me, Me, Me._ Nothing had changed since high school. It struck Veronica as incredibly lonely.

As she rounded the corner into the commotion of the expansive master bedroom, she was unsurprised to find the word _PRIDE_ scrawled upon the wall in blood. It was a sin that could be ascribed to so many of the elite in the 90909 zip code in Neptune, but Madison Sinclair had embraced it with gusto, showcasing her wealth at every turn. Her annual birthday announcement at lunch, usually accompanied by a quartet serenading her. Lavish parties that she made sure to flaunt at the unwelcome, unwashed masses she deemed beneath her. The bake sale stunts where her father bought expensive pies she sold back for twice the cost as if it were an accomplishment.

It was crass, but she didn’t deserve to die for it. Fuck John Doe.

Madison lay sprawled in her bed in a silk nightgown of pale ivory, now stained crimson. At least, Veronica assumed it was Madison. The figure before her was blonde and slender like the model she’d grown up with. Her entire head was shrouded in gauze wrap, soaked in blood so thick, it was clotting to a deep burgundy-black. Droplets cascaded down her neck to her shoulders and chest. Veronica’s gaze followed their path, noting that Madison’s splayed arms each held an object—and understanding sunk in.

Like Richard Casablancas, Madison had been given a role to play in her own demise.

Behind her head, Doe had propped a large headshot of Madison, an almost cruel statement on the condition of her body: a seeming confirmation of the victim beneath it, whose body had been posed in a sloppy mockery of the crucifixion. Snapping on a pair of gloves, she gestured to the portrait and asked if she could move it. The scene photographer nodded, assuring her it had been documented.

_Bingo._ A white index card was tacked to the wall beneath the bloody scrawl of condemnation. A message from Doe.

“Always move the picture.”

Veronica startled slightly at the sound of Logan’s voice, feeling her skin flush as she remembered the night before. Her drunken weird moment of affection was inappropriate, out of left field and _would not be repeated_. _Shove it down, be professional, move on_.

Gesturing for the photographer to document it, she turned around, finding Logan at the doorway of an adjoining bathroom. “Doe’s getting predictable. What’s in there?”

“A blood bath—literally.” Logan shuddered slightly. “What we’ve pieced together so far is Madison came home from a dinner with a friend around nine last night. She called her agent about a shoot this afternoon around ten. Doe must have struck between ten and eight this morning, when he placed the call to 911. Looks like he mutilated her in the bathroom, bandaged her, then dragged her back into the bedroom.”

“You can take the card, Lieutenant!” the photographer called out behind her.

“Thanks.” 

Veronica reached for the index card, carefully removing the pin and retrieving it. It was the same neat penmanship, eerily precise. Logan leaned over her shoulder, reading the quote aloud.

“ _’Ladies of Fashion starve their happiness to feed their vanity, and their love to feed their pride.’_ It’s vaguely familiar. Probably in my Bartlett’s.”

“He knew her, or at least he understands her,” Veronica mused. “There’s a level of empathy here for Madison that Doe hasn’t shown anyone else. He understands that her life is lonely. She’s paying a price for her sin.”

“I met her once.” Veronica’s head snapped up at this revelation. “Dick dated Madison for two years.”

“Shit, I forgot about that. She went on a surfing trip?”

“More like she took a modelling job in Australia during one of our trips so she could swing by and screw Dick for a couple days,” Logan explained. “I barely saw them. Kept to myself.”

“I went to high school with her. But my family’s relationship with the Sinclairs is a little more complex…”

“How so?”

Veronica crouched down beside the bed, examining the phone in Madison’s left palm. It was glued to her skin. If she moved the thumb… Yes, she could have hit send. Could have called for help.

“Which story do you want: the one where I discovered she was switched at birth with Mac or the part where _my_ father accused _her_ father of murdering Caitlin Ford?”

A Forensics technician whistled and Logan growled. “That’s it. Take five, give us the room.” Veronica watched in amusement as the techs exchanged bewildered looks. “That was an order,” Logan added firmly, peering inside Madison’s bathroom. “You too!”

_Well, alright._

The room cleared out, he nudged the door closed with a nonchalant shrug. “Why are they already here, anyway? Our scene first. I work better in quiet.”

She struggled to maintain a neutral expression. “I agree, Detective.”

“You were about to tell me two stories?”

Veronica passed him the index card with Doe’s message. “Bag that for me, please. The story with Mac is short and sweet. To make extra cash, I was investigating classmates’ parents for dirt. Speeding tickets, DUIs, basic embarrassing stuff. Mac felt like her family were pod people. Turned out there was a baby swap at the hospital, discovered after a couple years. Families decided to keep the kids they had because they already loved them.”

“Wow…”

“Madison should have been lower class, camping every summer with a bratty brother invading her privacy.” Veronica circled the bed, wanting to examine the small object clutched in her right hand. “As for the Caitlin Ford case, also known as the one that destroyed my dad’s career… how much do you already know?”

“That Caitlin was found murdered by her hot tub. Your dad grilled her parents, implied they may have killed their daughter. Rich people revolted, recalled the sheriff. Turned out it was that man she was having an affair with who did it… what was his name?”

Veronica lifted Madison’s right hand, tilting her head in surprise. _Ahh…_ The pieces fell into place.

“Caitlin Ford was secretly working as a sugar baby. Hiring herself out to be kept by rich older men. Why a rich girl felt the need, I don’t know. My dad’s theory was her conservative father lost it and killed her by accident during an argument. To be fair, they _did_ obstruct justice by changing and washing her clothes. She’d died in her escorting goods and they changed her into something less risqué before calling for help. Once dad went into the PI biz, he found the escort angle and one of her clients was Madison’s dad. Not her killer in the end, but a very frequent client and very smitten. Also gross because she was only seventeen.”

“And very similar to his daughter?”

“Thank you, that’s what I said.” Veronica shuddered. “The killer, as it turned out, was a teacher at Neptune High. Mr. Rooks. The condom broke and Caitlin came calling. He panicked when she suggested she didn’t want to abort.”

“Right, I remember now. Lilly said one of her classmates from boarding school knew Rooks. He had a pattern.”

“Four girls he preyed on that we know of,” Veronica replied sadly. “You said that Doe mutilated Madison in the bathroom. How?”

Logan flipped open his notebook, scanning pages. “Coroner says he removed part of her nose and used a surgical tool, likely a scalpel, to create numerous wounds to her forehead, cheeks and jaw line. Wounds penetrated multiple levels of dermis and would scar deeply.”

“You see what he did to her? It’s like Big Dick.” Veronica stepped backwards, surveying the scene. “He mutilates her, horribly. He bandages her wounds. If I’m placing a bet, he even administers antibiotics like he did with Goodman. He then glues her phone in one hand and a bottle of sleeping pills in the other. Dissolve under the tongue, of course.”

“Call for help and live, but be scarred forever… or end it all…” Logan cursed softly. “Come on. Plastic surgery?”

“She’s terrified. Her entire career is based on her face. Have you looked around this apartment? Her appearance is her identity. When you strip her of that, what is left? She felt so vulnerable, so terrified, so much physical pain… she couldn’t deal with it. But Doe gave her the possibility to choose. To change.”

“What does it mean?”

Veronica hesitated. “I’m not certain, but I think it means that Big Dick and Madison are different in Doe’s eyes. Or maybe his resolve is wavering, which means he may just make a fucking mistake” 

“Then let’s head back to the precinct, take a fresh look and regroup.”

As Logan reached for the door, her hand grazed his arm. “Hey… Cliff. Thank you.”

“Cliff?”

“Brooks?”

Recognition, an averted gaze. _Caught_. 

“I was driving in and felt really… helpless. I don’t know…”

“You did a good thing,” she assured him. “Come on, let’s go get some coffee because my head is killing me.”

“Did you eat pizza like I told you?”

“Of course I did! I drank my water weight in scotch, it didn’t matter.”

He taunted her lightly as they headed out of the condo, in search of enough caffeine to corral the wild horses stampeding in her skull. 

* * *

They parked their cars side by side in the lot, Veronica admiring Logan’s sleek red SUV. “You’re going to stand out at a crime scene.”

“Which means my buddy Friedrich can figure out which car to keep an eye on,” Logan quipped. “It’s a hybrid, it accelerates well, and that’s all I asked for. Lilly chose the colour.”

Veronica laughed. “I should have known. She told me she was car shopping for you.” As they crossed the parking lot together, she decided it was as good a time as any to give Logan her news. “Um… so I’ve decided to stay on until this case is done. Or at least for another month.”

She stole a peripheral glance, puzzled by Logan’s silence. He clutched his coffee tightly, his features scrunched deeply in worry.

“Unless you want me to… not stay?”

“No!”

_Oh_. “I’ll tell my dad then—“

“No, no I’m happy you’re staying!” Logan cut her off, his splinted arm waving erratically at his side. “I just… I didn’t expect you to change your mind. You’ve been so determined to get out of here.”

“Well, you were right.” Veronica boot scuffed the ground as she took a marked interest in a jagged crack in the aged pavement. “I can still do this. I have been. And while I don’t know if I can do it for the rest of my life anymore, law school doesn’t start for a month. I want to finish this case.”

“Let’s finish it, then,” Logan replied warmly.

They walked in step, Logan bumping lightly against her arm with his. Checking in, she knew. _You good?_ She leaned her head against his shoulder for a moment and smiled up at him. _I’m fine._ She’d slept through the night and she felt comfortable. Confident in her choices. Confident that her… _partner_ would have her back in the field.

Fuck it, Detective Logan Echolls was her partner. Not that she would tell him that. It would go right to his damn head.

“So that quote from Madison’s place is Charles Caleb Colton, by the way. Old English cleric.”

Veronica sipped her coffee, shoving through the entry doors of the precinct. “One preacher to another. Did we recover a quote from the scene yesterday?”

Logan nodded. “Pinned over the VIP couch. _But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart. Matthew 5:28_.”

Veronica jogged up the main stairwell, Logan keeping pace. “Interesting. A straight Bible condemnation. I think this supports my theory.”

Logan paused on the landing, putting out an arm to block her path. “How do you figure?”

“It’s impersonal. The Anders quote was equally impersonal. Doe knows some of his victims better than others. He may relate to some of them. Maybe we can profile him based on the victims he feels an affinity with.”

Logan was visibly amused. “There she goes again: it’s whiteboarding time.”

“You love my whiteboard.”

“I love _surfboards_ …”

It was hard to hear at first over the bustle and din of the station. Sunday afternoons were a busy day for 14th District: the main floor drew members of the public in need of criminal background checks for work; early afternoon meant a shift change was due; and the local historical society was just finishing its weekly tour of the building, which happened to be a landmark. 

It was easy to miss a soft-spoken man calling out from the bottom of the staircase. Easy to miss a calm request for attention. A neutral statement of a job title.

Impatience consumed the man, and he would no longer be ignored.

“DETECTIVES!”

Veronica and Logan spun around, leaning over the railing of the staircase in search of the shout. Standing in the middle of the crowd, his white button-down collared shirt spattered in blood, was a man of average height, his head clean-shaven. Civilians were backing away from him in shock and fear as patrol officers edged forward nervously, hands on holsters. The man raised his hands in the air, revealing bloody fingers wrapped loosely in gauze.

“I believe you’re looking for me,” he announced.

Logan’s coffee hit the ground with a splash as he ran down the steps, gun drawn. “Down!” he barked. “Down on the ground, NOW!”

Veronica dropped her coffee, drawing her weapon and hurrying behind him. Because she recognized that voice from the phone. She knew that cool, smug tone.

_John Doe_.

“Lay on the ground, face down, hands stretched in front of you!” she commanded. “You’re under arrest!”

“Get down. Now!” Logan ordered, his voice trembling.

Veronica waved him back with a firm stare. “I’ve got him. Read him his rights.”

The man did not resist, smiling wanly as he lowered himself to the tiled floor and lazily stretched his arms in front of him. Veronica ordered a nearby officer to radio for the Captain as she swiftly cuffed Doe. She grimaced as sticky blood oozed onto her palms from his bandaged fingers. The wounds were fresh, very fresh. 

In the one moment where she was ever happy to see him, Sean Friedrich rushed forward to hold Doe’s legs as another patrol officer searched him for weapons. Logan recited Doe’s rights with a fiery precision.

“No ID in the wallet,” Friedrich told her.

“I’d like my lawyer, _please_ ,” Doe informed her, his voice dripping with disdain.

Hauling him to his feet, Veronica gritted her teeth. “Oh, you’ll get your lawyer. We’re going to do everything by the book with you.”

_You’re not escaping on a technicality, asshole. I’ve got you now, and there’s no way this is an accident. Whatever your game is, I will beat you at it._

* * *

“You can’t be serious!”

“We’re trying everything, but—“

“He’s still John Doe?” Veronica was exasperated. “The bank cards in his wallet?”

“The accounts are under Jonathan Doe, opened online, no verification done in branch. Looks like scanned IDs sent in. Forged. Funds were deposited over time in cash. No payroll, no government support cheques.”

“No money laundering alerts?” Logan pressed.

Keith sighed. “That’s between the Feds and the bank. Don’t shoot the messenger. ID is fake. No trace. No fingerprints we can use—finally solved that part of the puzzle. He’s been cutting his fingertips for years, best the doctor could tell. They’re mutilated beyond viable printing. We can hunt for a palm print to match him to a scene, but no one catalogues them to a database for a hit.”

Veronica stared through the two-way mirror, watching as Doe scribbled on a yellow legal pad with an intense focus. “He’s John Doe by choice. He’s rendered himself nameless.”

“He wants his killings to remain the stars of the show,” Logan theorized. “So why’s he here? He’s not done.”

“I agree, it doesn’t feel right,” Keith echoed. “Marcia’s beside herself with glee. Thinks the two of you were so hot on his heels, he turned himself in. She’s too blinded by her campaign to consider this is a calculated move.”

“He’s screwing with us,” Veronica muttered, jaw falling slack as Doe turned, staring at the mirror. 

Staring _at_ Veronica. As if he knew where she would be.

“His lawyer will tell us, I’m certain.” Leaning against a wall, Keith glanced between them. “Whatever comes next, I want you to be careful. This guy is calculated, organized, precise. He’s here because he wants to be here. Don’t trust him.”

“Agreed, Captain Mars.” Logan was solemn as he paced the observation room, studying Doe. “We can’t underestimate him. I made that mistake once already.”

Veronica’s gaze fell on Logan’s hand, remembering Doe’s gun pointed at his skull. “This is all a game in Doe’s mind. We can’t forget that.”

Inside the room, Doe slid the pad to his attorney, who reviewed the contents and nodded. It was time to hear the terms of engagement.

Veronica and Logan followed her father to his office, where they were soon joined by DA Langdon and JC Borden, Doe’s attorney. Langdon’s navy pantsuit was perfectly pressed, her white blouse neatly peeking out from beneath her buttoned blazer. Her hair was swept back in a severe knot—a no-nonsense look. _Here to kick ass and take names_. Borden, on the other hand, was everything Veronica despised in a defense attorney: the showy Rolex that was so extravagant, she’d almost question its authenticity had she not done a stint working the port, busting counterfeit shipments; the three-piece suit that cost more than her rent; and the smarmy smile of satisfaction that suggested Doe and his impossible repository of mystery cash were compensating him generously for this meeting.

Veronica believed in the system. She believed in the right to good representation for everyone, because defeating an unarmed opponent wasn’t satisfying. But lawyers like Borden had no ethics and no respect for the law. _They_ were parasites. 

_I miss Cliff already_.

“Mr. Doe’s attorney has terms he’d like to negotiate with us,” Langdon announced as she settled into Keith’s desk, gesturing for Borden to sit in the opposing chair.

Veronica noticed her father bristle at the intrusion, but he rolled with it, perching on the desk surface in a way that placed him in front of Langdon, effectively blocking her from Borden’s line of sight. Veronica stood at his side, pleased that Logan fell in behind her. 

Borden sat his briefcase down, gesticulating wildly with his hands as he spoke. “My client, Mr. Jonathan Doe, has advised me that there are two more bodies out there. Terrible business, but he pays me to handle business, terrible and otherwise. Now, and I gotta stress this is a limited time offer, he will take Detectives Echolls and Mars _to these bodies_ , but _only_ Mars and Echolls and only today, at six on the dot.”

Veronica glanced back at Logan, frowning. _You think he’s bluffing?_ she mouthed.

_Maybe,_ he replied.

“To be clear, my client meant the younger Mars,” Borden quickly amended. “No offense, Captain.”

“None taken,” Keith replied. “Marcia, you know we don’t negotiate with criminals like this. We’ve seen the games killers play. Ted Bundy, Henry Lee Lucas—“

“My client anticipated your resistance,” Borden interrupted. “He says if you refuse his offer, he’ll cop a plea of insanity and tell the media how this police force let two victims rot, with no proper burial. Lousy publicity. Your force knows all about that. How’s the coverage on the Casablancas case, DA?”

Marcia’s expression was tight-lipped as she drummed her fingers on the surface of Keith’s desk. “We can’t leave families without answers, _if_ there are bodies. Keith, do we believe his claim?”

“We’re running an expedited blood analysis now, trying to determine if there’s evidence of an unknown victim on there,” Keith replied. “Let me go check on the status of that.”

As her father stepped out of the office, Veronica glared at Borden, arms folded over her chest. “You know if Doe cops an insanity plea, this conversation and his attempt to blackmail us will be admissible in court.”

Behind her, Logan quietly mumbled, “Get him.”

Borden seemed surprised by Veronica’s awareness of this loophole, but quickly regrouped. “And my client would like to remind _you_ that people are dead. If you agree to his terms, he will sign a full confession today.”

“Before we leave?” Logan clarified.

Borden nodded. “It’s what, two? You have time.” He waved his gaudy watch to emphasize the statement.

Keith slipped back inside the office, a grim expression on his face. “California Bureau just confirmed: blood on his shirt corresponds to Doe, from his fingers; Madison Sinclair; and an unknown third victim. Profile doesn’t match any of our previous victims.”

Marcia leaned back in Keith’s chair, shaking her head. “I don’t like it. But this is your case, Keith. What do you want to do?”

“It’s not my case; it’s theirs,” Keith corrected her, turning to Veronica and Logan. “What do you two want to do?”

From behind them, Borden piped up, “One last condition: both of you have to go, or no deal.”

Logan pulled Veronica into a corner of the office, his voice scarcely a whisper. “I don’t like this.”

“Me neither. But we knew Doe wasn’t done, didn’t we?”

“What if this is a trap? What if we end up the last two bodies and he has an accomplice waiting to help his escape?”

Veronica frowned, mulling the possibility. Yeah, that definitely seemed likely. 

“So we demand the works,” she mused. “Eyes in the sky. Wires. ETF on our heels. Doe shackled hand and foot to slow him down.”

Rubbing his hand over his hair, Logan mulled her suggestion. “Full confession. We go in with eyes in the sky including a sniper in the air.”

That was going to take a special favour. But given the highly publicized nature of Doe’s crimes and Langdon’s eagerness to close the case… yeah, she suspected the call would be made. 

Turning around, she met her father’s concerned gaze with a determined look. “We have conditions of our own, but yes. Let’s finish it.”

* * *

Veronica strapped on her Kevlar, adjusting it to a snug fit. Frowning, she tapped the collar of her blouse: one, two, three.

“Dad?”

_“You’re good, Veronica. Mic’s in place.”_

A tiny covert device, pinned inside the fold. Times had changed from a world when cops taped wires and mics to their chests. Old movies made her chuckle when she watched hairy men grimace as they were yanked free, or shave down to prep for a sting.

A knock on the door was answered by Logan. A familiar voice immediately lifted her spirits, providing extra reassurance about what was fast feeling like a terrible idea.

“Papa Bear?” she murmured, spinning around.

“Supafly!”

Wallace Fennel entered the office, grinning with his arms outstretched. Logan stood aside as they embraced, both amused and clearly awaiting an explanation. Wallace was one of her oldest friends, one of the few she’d had during Neptune High’s shunning of her. His mother had dated her father for a few years, and while they’d drifted apart after Keith had taken the Captain’s role in the big city, she and Wallace noticed that neither of them had ever truly moved on.

“Girl, what trouble are you in now?”

Veronica shook her head. “There’s not enough hours. But this is my last case, so who else would they call in? Wallace Fennel, I want you to meet Detective Logan Echolls. He’s taking over my job here, so be nice to him.”

They shook hands, Logan offering a warm smile. “Fennel, as in Mayor of Neptune?”

“The man’s quick,” Wallace remarked, grinning. “That’s my mom. Three terms and counting! All we gotta do now is sort out her love life and she’s got it made. Still calling top bunk!”

“I will fight you!” Veronica giggled, nudging his arm. “Dinner, set it up. Dad’s been racking up those fried chicken Hungry Man dinners in the recycling again.”

“Ugh. Say no more.” Rubbing his hands together, Wallace exhaled loudly. “So, I will be in charge of your bird today. I’ll be on comms, so if there’s anything I need to know in the air, let me know. I’ll have a sniper on deck, as requested—some guy named Booth? Ex-military. Stay sharp, stay _safe_ , and I’ll catch you on the ground. Nice to meet you, Echolls.”

Veronica clapped her hand on his back and nodded. “Thanks, Wallace. Safe flight.”

Watching him depart, Logan turned to her, his features clouded over. “You still think this is a bad idea?”

“Yep. But I think it’s the only idea, and as long as we _know_ it’s a bad idea, we’ll be ready.” 

He leaned against the door frame, studying her intently. “You’re going to be okay. _We’re_ going to be okay.”

Veronica hid her hands behind her back, aware they were trembling. How did he know that was what she was thinking? It wasn’t fair, how well he knew her.

“And what makes you so sure?”

“Because I won’t let anything happen to you,” he replied solemnly, “and I know you won’t let anything happen to me. Come on, they’re waiting.”

His hand pressed into the middle of her back and she released a breath she’d been holding. _I won’t let anything happen to him. He will protect me._ She had to trust in it. She repeated it, like a mantra, as they made their way through the labyrinthine maze of corridors to the precinct garage, where Doe was waiting, shackled inside the back of a cruiser. Hand and foot, as she’d insisted. 

“Confession is signed?” Logan asked.

“Every murder,” her father replied. “You ready?”

_No._ “Let’s go.”

Her father handed her the keys, leaning in close. “I love you, kiddo. We’ll be two miles behind you.”

“Love you too,” she whispered.

One thing she’d learned from her near-miss that night three years ago: you never know when you won’t get the chance to say it again. She told her father every day now, even if it was only a text message: _Love you, Pops._ Just in case.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, she adjusted the position and mirrors, maintaining a neutral expression as Doe’s face came into view. He’d been positioned in the middle seat, affording him no ability to assault either officer from behind. The unnerving downside would be seeing him every time she checked her mirror, but it was a trade-off she’d have to live with.

Logan took his seat beside her and settled in. Behind them, Doe sighed.

“We can begin,” he murmured happily.

Veronica turned the ignition, allowing the car to warm up. “Where are we going, John?”

“It’s not an address,” he replied softly. “I will direct you.”

“What’s the first direction?”

His cuffs jingled softly as he shifted his hands in his lap. “Head towards the ramp for the interstate. When we’re close, I’ll tell you what’s next.”

She didn’t like this. Not one fucking bit. Throwing the car into reverse, she backed out of the garage and did as he directed, turning left out of the lot and making a quick right onto the main drag. Four blocks or so would take them to the on ramp for the 101.

The ride was silent for the first three blocks, aside from the comms chatter in her left ear. Wallace and Booth were in the air, tracking her vehicle from above. Her father was in the ETF van, riding along and commanding the operation. Logan’s fingers drummed softly against the passenger door. 

_He’s anxious too_.

“Do not take the highway,” John instructed her. “Veer left and continue for two miles.”

Veronica complied, studying their surroundings. Anticipating Doe’s next move. This was a heavily industrial area, primarily factories and abandoned warehouses. Beyond here lay an indoor skydiving facility and rural land. It was a side route she sometimes took to avoid traffic to Santa Barbara.

“Is it far?” she asked casually. 

“We have a way to go still. Every lesson requires a journey,” John replied cryptically, staring out the window at the passing landscape.

“Most people journey without a body count,” Logan observed dryly.

Veronica glanced in the rear view, noticing John’s icy blue eyes were focused upon Logan. His lips were pursed tightly, his limbs twitching with nervous energy.

“Most people do not make a journey with the meaning mine holds,” John uttered. “I have suffered long and hard for all I have learned. For all that I will show the world. And when I am done? When they finally see what I have accomplished here? They will struggle to comprehend it, but they will no longer be able to deny its meaning.”

“You see this as work?” Logan probed.

“Yes. It has all led to this. It is truly special.” John smiled, almost dreamily, and Veronica shuddered. “Take the next county road north and continue for five miles.”

_To the rural land, then._ She heard the chatter on the line—Wallace was moving ahead, scouting for signs of a parked vehicle waiting to ambush them; her father was reviewing how far to remain back, so as not to tip off their presence to Doe.

“See, I don’t think it’s all that spectacular,” Logan goaded. “You’re just another serial killer with a religious fixation. Lock you up, we do a trial. You’ll fade into obscurity, John. Your mutilated fingerprints are probably the only thing you’ve got going for you.”

“Echolls,” she cautioned, glancing over at him.

A half-smile, a quick wink. This was a strategy of some kind. She wasn’t sure she understood it, or agreed with it, but there was an endgame. 

“You’re wrong,” John replied confidently.

“Am I?” Logan shifted in his seat, staring through the cage separator. “Your little sermons are scarcely making the news now. Only one anyone’s doing backflips over is Casablancas and half of that is because rich people are looking to recoup their cash from his estate. They’re not listening, John.”

“You haven’t seen the complete act yet.” Doe swayed slowly in his seat, staring at the roof of the car. “You know nothing of my work, of what it is to be called to serve. But you will see. Everyone will see.”

“Because you killed people, instead of preaching on a corner or the internet,” Logan scoffed.

“If you want people to listen, you can’t ask them to take a pamphlet,” John sneered. “You need to hit them over the head with it. I got your attention, didn’t I, Detective Echolls?”

“Killing innocent people got the attention of the police, alright,” Logan seethed.

“Innocent people?” Doe chuckled darkly, a sound that spilled ice water down Veronica’s veins. “Innocent people. A woman so ugly, so empty on the inside she couldn’t bear to live if she couldn’t be beautiful. An obese man, a disgusting man who profited off the deaths of children, a glutton for grief and then food. A pedophile who evaded the likes of you, who was never punished, who was lazy in office and lived ten years, lying around an apartment, surfing for images to feed his sickness—“

“You don’t get to justify murder to me, John,” Logan interrupted. “I’ve heard this song and dance from criminals like you. You can dress it up as God’s good work, as punishing the wicked, but frankly, I don’t give a shit. Every single killer thinks he’s got a message, a lesson he’s gotta teach someone, some… _justification_. There’s no lesson in violence. No one _learns_ from violence! No one is going to _learn_ from your murders, or your little shadow boxes of death trinkets or—“

Her hand reached across the car, grabbing his arm and squeezing reassuringly. “Okay.”

He needed to hit pause, take a breath. She recognized the signs from so many tear-stained moments in her life. Logan was far from this car, far from this case. He wasn’t talking about Doe anymore. 

He was talking about Aaron Echolls.

Logan drew a deep breath in her periphery, exhaling slowly. Centering. Regrouping. She’d been there so many times. Behind them, John began to bounce excitedly in the backseat.

“What is it, John?”

“It’s close now,” he murmured happily.

The county highway was devoid of traffic, their car the lone vehicle heading north as the sun hung low. Sunset was just over an hour away, a fact she stowed in the back of her mind. She refused to be caught out in the middle of nowhere in pitch blackness with this murderous asshole. She knew what he was capable of in the shadows.

To her right and her left, barren land stretched as far as she could see. Dead grass, scorched from a summer of dry heat, now flattened after days of heavy rain. Drowned decay, the epitome of California.

“Do you see the high tension wires a mile ahead?” John asked.

“Mmhmm.”

“There’s a road between them to the left. Take it.”

In her ear, she heard Wallace’s voice: _“Yeah, I see where he means. Gonna have to go higher. Not sure where I’ll be able to set us down, but I’ll circle.”_

Logan had heard Wallace’s words, of course. She stole a nervous look at him, acknowledging the concern in his chestnut eyes. A small nod. 

_We knew he would fuck us over, Logan. It’s going to be okay._

Her mind drifted back to Mac’s research, recalling the list of books Doe had purchased over the last two years. One of his choices had been an introductory text on modern policing. _Must be how he anticipated the helicopter_ , she mused angrily. 

The silver towers loomed beside her as she approached a small unmarked road and signalled for a turn. Doe’s smug, satisfied smile set her on edge. What exactly was waiting at the end of this damn road? 

“So John… since we’re almost there… why don’t you tell us who you are? I mean, who you really are,” she clarified. “It seems strange to keep hiding now, doesn’t it? A signed confession, your work is done…”

His head swivelled in her direction as she glanced up at the rear view. “Your need to know everything is a hubris, Detective Mars. It’s going to get you killed someday.”

“Is that a threat?” Logan cautioned, leaning back.

“No threat, mere observation,” Doe replied calmly, leaning back in his seat. “Who I am doesn’t matter. What matters is that people see. That _you_ see. The silver RV on the right is our destination.”

The comms erupted in a flurry of cross-chatter: Wallace complaining he couldn’t get closer than a mile out due to the clustered rows of tension wire towers; the sniper insisting they remain airborne, maintaining a potential shot; her father ordering the ETF van to approach the turn off for the access road. 

Veronica pulled the police sedan off the road opposite the RV, killing the engine and pocketing the keys. Her knuckles were a ghastly white, her grip so tight her palms were starting to spasm. 

“What time is it?” John asked.

“6:56,” Logan replied. “Where are the bodies?”

“They’re not in this car,” the prisoner remarked dryly.

Tucking an errant strand of hair back into her ponytail, Veronica stepped out of the car into the heat of the evening sun. The RV was an older model, sleek and rounded like an oblong bullet on wheels. Its awning hung sadly from its side, green and white fabric torn and tattered. Newspapers and fast food debris littered the cracked earth surrounding it, along with the warped metal frame of what may have been a lawn chair. A hundred feet southeast lay a green Chevy van on cinder blocks, its front driver’s side door dented, windows smashed out. 

_“Mars? Echolls? Talk to us.”_

Her father. Checking in. Checking up. Logan joined her at her side, gesturing for her to respond on their behalf.

“There’s an RV, broken down. A car, just in the distance, also broken down. No sign of an ambush I can see so far.”

“I’m getting him out,” Logan told her.

“Alright.”

She took several cautious steps forward, studying the ground for evidence of disturbance—a recent burial, tire tracks, trip wires. Overly cautious? Perhaps. This was John Doe, the man who was nameless by choice and had casually turned himself in. Veronica would take no chances.

Fifty feet away, lying on the shoulder, she noted a small swarm of flies excitedly swarming. She recoiled in disgust and sadness as she drew near, spying the decaying corpse of a German shepherd. 

“What is it?” Logan called out.

“Dead dog.”

Doe frowned, shrugging his shoulders in his ill-fitting orange jumpsuit. “I didn’t do _that_.”

“And where is what you _did_ do?” Veronica queried.

“It’s close,” Doe replied, pointing beyond the van.

Gun drawn, Logan directed Doe to lead them to the remains, Veronica flanking Logan on his left. Overhead, she heard the helicopter’s blades whirring high above the high-tension towers, a reassurance they were not alone. John shuffled slowly in his foot shackles, but did not complain, nor did he move with hesitation. 

“Is it in the van?” Logan asked.

Doe’s mouth fell open to answer, but Veronica held up a hand to silence him as Wallace’s voice rang in her ear: _“Vee, you’ve got company.”_

Speeding down the small service road, cutting a perfect course between the tension towers, a white van swiftly approached their parked vehicle.

_“We’re moving in to intercept!”_ her father shouted.

“Stay in position!” she commanded, both her father and Logan. “Watch him,” she added softly as Logan shifted around in front of Doe. 

“Be careful,” Logan urged her.

_Careful._ Not in her vocabulary. Calculated? That she could do.

Breaking into a run, Veronica reached their cruiser in under a minute, assessing the location of the approaching van. Still a solid mile away. Cranking the engine on, she floored it and willed the aging vehicle not to stall, cutting the van off a hundred feet back from the RV. Not optimal, but it bought her a cushion. As the van ground to a halt, she threw open the driver’s door and drew her weapon, pointing it at the broad-shouldered man behind the wheel.

“Police! Out of the vehicle, hands up, NOW!”

“Whoa! Whoa! I’m just delivering a package!” the man pleaded, swinging the door open. “Jiffyway Couriers.”

“Name!” Veronica barked, rounding her car.

“Arthur Bradley. Look, some guy paid me five hundred bucks to bring a rush package here tonight for seven.” He was rambling now, his shaggy black curls ruffling in the breeze. “Package for this guy… Echolls. Logan Echolls.”

Veronica’s stomach dropped as his name registered. _The time. Doe was particular on the time._

“Hands against the vehicle,” she commanded, softening her voice.

She patted the courier down, satisfying herself that he was without weapons and checking his name against his driver’s licence. The ID was sound—if it was a forgery, it was an excellent one. Handing back his wallet, she waved her gun at the cab of the van.

“Bring me the package.”

Arthur stammered incoherent apologies and yanked open the side door, extracting a box labelled with a large red _Fragile: Handle With Care_ sticker. Veronica estimated it was no larger than 12 inches by 12 inches. 

_Certainly not big enough for a body_ … _what the hell is Doe up to?_

“Just the one box?”

“Yeah. Look, I have tuition due soon. It was a lot of money. I’m sorry—“

Veronica waved him off. “Alright, Arthur. Get out of here. It’s not safe.”

He didn’t need to be told twice: abandoning his van, Arthur broke into a run, heading east down the service road. 

An unknown voice crackled in her ear: _“Alright, we got a box. I need a bomb squad, now!”_

_“ETA twenty minutes!”_ a voice replied.

_“Veronica, you okay?”_ Her father piped up now, audibly concerned.

She stole a glance at Logan and Doe, assessing the risks. Doe was on his knees before Logan, docile and calm. Logan had his gun drawn and aimed at Doe’s head, his attention drifting between Veronica and their prisoner. She flashed him a thumbs up, unwilling to risk his safety.

_Focus on him, Logan. I have this_.

_“Veronica?”_

“I’m fine.”

_What do we know about Doe?_

He’s organized, methodical and precise. He plans every detail of his killings. He is patient. He sees this as his life’s work, as something greater than himself. He wants it to be remembered. He takes great care to ensure each death represents a sin.

_Blowing us up does not represent envy or wrath, nor will it represent both at once. This isn’t a bomb._

“I’m opening the box,” she declared, reaching inside her boot for her switchblade.

_“Are you sure?”_ her father asked.

“A bomb doesn’t fit his profile. This is something else. A piece of the puzzle he’s brought us here to solve…”

Flipping open the blade, she carefully slit open the red packing tape sealing the box. As it released, it struck her immediately: the scent of iron. _Blood_. Gingerly lifting the lid, she grimaced at the reddish-brown spatter on the inner flaps of cardboard.

“There’s blood in here…”

_“What is it?”_

Veronica’s hand worked the blade beneath the flap, unwilling to make contact. The pounding in her chest swelled to a crescendo, filling her ears as she held her breath and pushed it back, revealing the contents of Doe’s package.

_OH FUCK..._

It was as if the world paused, her senses honing in on a single moment in time: the citrus hue of the sun as it reflected off the chrome bumper of the delivery van; the musty scent of desert dust stirring beneath her anxiously shuffling feet; the whispered hush of the summer breeze, spilling a secret she could not bear to keep.

Veronica had been a cop for eight years. She’d seen terrible things in her career. Things that had kept her up at night. Things that had haunted her sleep, like the image of Meg’s head shattering against the floor of a bedroom while she watched helplessly. She’d witnessed true darkness in the last seven days, as Doe had fulfilled his vision of attrition.

Nothing had prepared her for what lay inside that box.

Turning her back to Logan, she clasped her palm to her mouth, choking down bile. _Get it together, Veronica. Get it together._

She saw it now: the completed tableau. The picture on the puzzle box, and Doe’s bloody fingers sliding the final pieces into place. He was so close to his macabre masterpiece, but it wasn’t finished. No, it was far from over. 

The first domino had been tipped over long ago, but she could pluck one from the line, disrupt the chain. 

Her father’s voice bellowed over the radio: _“Mars, report!”_

Her eyes closed and Meg was there, waiting for her. Her long blonde hair hung in loose, looping curls, like her last birthday party, mere weeks before she was buried beneath the earth. _You can stop this, Veronica_ , she urged. _I know you can_. 

Staring at the burnt orange sky, she inhaled deeply to steady herself. “Don’t come in here. I mean it. Eyes up, ETF at distance. No matter what you hear, you leave this to us. John Doe has the upper hand.” 

_“Veronica—_ “

Slipping her hand inside her lapel, she tossed her mic to the ground as she broke into a desperate sprint, praying she wasn’t too late…

[Story Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/074NxDR14f9ZBfXlo8ZaAV?si=-GtPGeJFT7GSsZFHyVbBuA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW.
> 
> Sunday continues this Wednesday. Doe is here, in our faces. Do we know who he is now? I promise you, he has an identity (which is given in chapter 10 if you can't figure it out). Leave me all of your thoughts here or over in Fic Club Discord. Why not both?


	9. Sunday:  Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're posting early. I see you stressed in the comments about the box. It's time to find out what's inside.
> 
> Who is John Doe? We get official confirmation in the next chapter, but he's been telling us indirectly, every time he speaks, every time he acts. By the end of this chapter, Veronica knows. Let's see if you do, too. (I've heard the name already)
> 
> *passes out cozy blankets* Read the tags. You read them? Let's go...
> 
> (For ambiance, hit play on Code Red and The Heart's Filthy Lesson from the story playlist)

**Sunday**

“Is it in the van?” Logan asked.

Doe moved to answer him, but Veronica held up her hand as Wallace interrupted via their ear pieces: “ _Vee, you’ve got company.”_

Logan scanned the periphery, his body tensing as he spotted a vehicle heading north on the service road they’d just entered on. _A fucking trap! We called it._ His grip on his weapon tightened as Keith Mars barked out a command.

_“We’re moving in to intercept!”_

Yeah, they were. Logan took a step forward, eager to greet Doe’s accomplice, but was swiftly dismissed by a quick shake of the head from Veronica.

“Stay in position!” she insisted, presumably more so for her father. “Watch him,” she urged quietly as Logan shifted around in front of Doe. 

“Be careful.” _Please, Veronica_.

The look in her eyes told him she wasn’t going to listen. _Goddamn it._

“Down!” Logan ordered Doe, gesturing to the ground. “On your knees.”

“There she goes,” Doe murmured.

He needed to maintain control. He needed to be able to count her steps, to know he could reach her. ( _Forty-five second sprint. Too long. Doe complicated it all. Fuck!_ ) Doe lowered himself to the ground willingly, kneeling on the dry earth. 

_Too_ willingly, in Logan’s opinion, but he’d take the win.

“I’m glad we have time to talk privately.” Doe looked up at him, smiling serenely. “I’m a great admirer of yours, Detective Echolls. I do apologize again for assaulting you the other day.”

“Whatever, bygones. Be quiet,” Logan snapped.

Veronica had cut off the van with their cruiser, pulling her gun on the driver. She was further down the road now. A long sprint. Two minutes, maybe. Too far away. Maybe he should walk Doe back to the road, abandon the recovery of the bodies. They had a general area now. Cadaver dogs could work a grid from the RV.

“You’ve made quite the life for yourself, Detective Echolls,” Doe continued, in that gratingly pleasant voice. “Someone with a childhood like yours could have easily gone down another path. DUIs, petty vandalism, substance abuse… But here you are. Commendations and a shield.”

His eyes flitted between Veronica, who had a scrawny college-aged kid pinned against the van for a search, and Doe. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Doe tilted his head, his pale eyes boring a hole through Logan’s chest. “I have studied you intensely, Detective Echolls. We must always understand that which we must face. You may have chased me, but I have also pursued you.”

An icy hand gripped Logan’s throat as he aimed his gun at Doe’s forehead. “If you think reading tabloid trash and watching _Tinseltown Diaries_ has told you a damn thing about me as man, you’re mistaken.”

“Tell me: when your father made you choose the belt to discipline you with, how did that feel? Were there belts that were less terrible to suffer? When your transgressions were greater, did you choose a belt befitting the crime?”

A sucker punch to the gut and he felt himself buckle forward slightly in shock. _Blink_. A voice in his head: _“Go to the closet.”_

“Fuck you,” Logan spat. “Who are you, _really_?”

“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” Doe sing-songed. 

His hand trembled as he pressed the muzzle to Doe’s forehead. “Change the subject or stay quiet.”

_How the hell does he know that? Who told him?_

A man’s voice shouted over the comms channel: _“Alright, we got a box. I need a bomb squad, now!”_

_“ETA twenty minutes!”_ an unknown voice replied.

“Is my package here?”

_Veronica._ Logan checked over Doe’s shoulder, studying his partner. She was examining a cardboard box on the ground, her gun held loosely at her side. 

Keith Mars came over the ear piece, audibly worried. _“Veronica, you okay?”_

Was she okay? By design, they couldn’t hear each other’s mics to avoid feedback. Veronica’s head turned in his direction and she flashed him a thumbs up—or a middle finger, maybe. Either way, he’d take it as a sign they were fine.

“You know, Detective Echolls, being a father is not easy. All fathers want their children to be happy and strong. To learn to make better choices.”

Logan laughed darkly, rubbing his splinted hand against his temple. “Oh, this is rich. You’re going to argue that my abusive piece of shit father was just trying to make me into a _good man_? John, you should have kept your confession and gone with that insanity plea after all.”

“I know it is true,” Doe insisted quietly.

In the distance, Logan heard his name carried on the arid breeze. _Veronica?_

“I know it is true—“

“Shh!”

“Logan….down….”

What was she saying? Her arms pumped furiously at her side as she ran towards him. The comms exploded with a flurry of voices: her father, demanding a response; Wallace and the sniper, debating where to land; another voice, insisting Veronica’s command was worthless, much to Keith’s annoyance.

“I know it is true because your father told me so,” Doe announced loudly.

Logan focused on the prisoner kneeling before him, the orange of his jumpsuit gleaming in the setting sun. “What do you mean, he _told you so_?”

“People don’t listen to pamphlets, but some listen to sermons. To study. Your father studies,” Doe taunted him. “And he talks, Detective. He confesses freely. I know everything about you, and your pretty girlfriend. Lilly, is it?”

His heart battered against his ribcage as Doe licked his lips, moistening them. “Don’t you say her name. Don’t you EVER SAY HER NAME!”

“Logan!” Veronica was closer now, so much closer, yet still so far. “Drop it!”

_Drop what?_

“I paid her a visit this morning. After you left,” Doe clarified with a weary smile. “You see, I’ve grown tired of this work. Tired of toiling for God without reward. I know what she did for you. How she saved you. I know how she rejects her father and mother. No daughter should be without a father, Detective. So I tried to offer her all she was missing and in turn, find peace.” Staring down at his shackled hands, Doe sighed. “It didn’t end well.”

Cotton-mouthed and sickened with the sudden realization that Lilly hadn’t sent a single text _all day_ , Logan released the safety on his weapon.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Logan!”

Veronica staggered between them, gasping for air. Her hand pressed to his chest, pushing him back several steps as she leaned with all of her weight. 

“I took a souvenir,” Doe continued, glancing back at the white van. “Her pretty head.”

“Shut up!” Veronica shouted. “Logan, give me your gun, right now.”

His ear erupted in a flurry of static and chatter—voices arguing; voices urging calm; helicopter blades whirring. A hurricane was brewing and he was the eye of the storm. _No more._ Yanking out the ear piece, he staggered backwards, his vision narrowing to pinpoints of light as his stomach churned.

_Lilly can’t be… NO! NO! He’s lying._

“Logan, listen to me,” Veronica pleaded. “Give me your gun.”

“It’s not true. What’s in the box?” he mumbled.

Lilly laughed in his mind, skipping down the steps of the Statue of Liberty. If he reached out, grazed her lips with his fingertips, they would taste of cotton candy.

“Put the gun down,” Veronica pleaded, holstering her weapon. “Come on, like me.”

From behind her, Doe spoke softly, almost sadly. “I envy you, Detective Echolls. I envy you the family you chose. The love and care you found. I am alone.”

“What happened over there, Veronica?” He shook himself, blinking hard to bring her back into focus. “What’s in the box?”

Veronica’s hands clutched his cheeks, pulling his forehead against hers. “Please, Logan. Listen to me. Just… just give me the gun. Don’t let him win.”

“It seems envy is _my sin_ ,” Doe mused aloud, jangling his shackles like wind chimes.

The way she trembled, her pale complexion… _Oh fuck._ Oh god, he wasn’t bluffing, was he? 

_“Live wild and free, because tomorrow you might be dead, Lo,_ ” Lilly teased in his mind from the streets of Sicily. 

The rainy nights of that vacation spilled from his eyes as he tapped Veronica’s shoulder in earnest. “Veronica, what’s in the box?!”

“Give me the gun first,” she whispered.

“Oh, god,” he muttered, because it was as good as a fucking answer. “No, it can’t be. It’s fake. It can’t be real. It… it’s not…” He rubbed his head angrily, waving his gun in Doe’s face. “You’re a fucking liar!”

“Logan, don’t you see? That’s what he wants. He wants you to shoot him. He needs you to shoot him to complete his work. It’s why we both needed to be here. You _cannot_ give him the satisfaction. You cannot let him have what he wants.”

Veronica pushed him back further, her hands planted firmly on his chest, gripping his vest. Logan stumbled back, surprised by the charge, his attention set upon a small cardboard box beside a white van. He could sprint there, could see for himself if… But _no, god no_ , he couldn’t see her that way. Not if it was true.

He rocked on his heels, his limbs twitching. Itching for a fight. His father’s son, awakened and eager for vengeance.

“You tell me she’s alright,” he pleaded. “Veronica, you need to… You _have to_ …”

He sobbed once, a loud, guttural sound. Veronica gasped softly, stroking his arm and whispering apologies, and he knew. He knew. 

He knew what was true. And he knew what he would have to do.

As he buckled forward, his arm clutched to his stomach, Veronica whispered in his ear.

“Logan, please, please listen to me. If you kill him, he wins. He achieves his grand plan. He will be right: people will talk about this for years. People will talk about _him_ for years.”

“Become vengeance, Logan,” Doe called out to them, taunting. “Become… wrath.”

“You will become your father’s son. You will be the angry stereotype he’s counting on,” Veronica continued. “And I know you’re more than that. Lilly… she knows that too. Don’t you dare prove her wrong. Not now.”

His gun slumped to his side, Veronica’s words having merit. If Lilly was gone… He would make her proud. He had to try. She believed in him, always had.

“She begged for her life, Detective.”

“Shut up,” Logan mumbled.

But Doe would not be silent. He would not be denied his twist of the knife. And when the blade landed, it stole Logan’s breath. 

“She begged for her life and the life of the baby inside her.”

“SHUT UP!” Veronica’s hand flew out, slapping their prisoner hard.

The sound of flesh on flesh, the _clap_ , it was a thunderclap in his mind. No thought, no reason remained, save one: _a baby_. Lilly’s baby. _His baby_. His stomach lurched as he remembered his hands running over her hips, her abdomen, that very morning, unaware of a secret within.

“ _Oh_ ,” their prisoner lamented, seemingly remorseful as he clutched his flushed cheek. “He didn’t know?”

A formless curse slipped from Veronica’s lips and Logan walked her down, tears spilling down his cheeks. “He… Did you know?”

Bowing her head, Veronica sniffled. “She was waiting for the case to be done,” she replied hoarsely.

He felt his arm lift, felt the heft of his gun as his finger rested on the trigger. Felt Veronica’s hand wrap around his wrist, her fingers digging into his skin.

“Logan, _please_ , I know. I know it hurts. I know how badly you want to make him pay. I do, too. He’s counting on that. He’s counting on you being _just like Aaron_. And you are _not_ your father, Logan,” she insisted loudly, her chin jutting out. “You damn well _know_ you’re not. You are so much more than that monster. Tell me, Logan. Tell me you’re more than him.”

He shook his head slightly, sighting his shot. “Lilly… Veronica, _please_ … Please tell me she’s not in the box…”

“You know she is,” Doe goaded defiantly.

“Ignore him! Lilly is why you cannot do this.” Veronica pressed her hand to his heart, her eyes shimmering with tears. “If you do it, if you complete his fucking collection, he gets what he wants. People talk about _him_. They talk about the sins like fucking abstracts. The victims, they get lost, like Bundy or Dahmer. But if you and I drag his sorry ass back to the cruiser and take him in? He’s just another killer. He’s not special. The _victims_ matter. _Lilly_ will be talked about. _Lilly_ matters.”

“I love her so much.” A shuddering sob slipped free, a momentary break in composure.

“I know, Logan. So let’s do this right, for her. Give me the gun, and let’s make sure she’s the one everyone remembers, not _him_.”

She reached for his gun but he shook her off, stepping backwards, surveying the scene. His head knew her words rang true, but his heart was engulfed in flames rivalling the sunset on the horizon before him. 

His girlfriend, his partner, his best friend. The mother of his child. _Gone_. Stolen from the world by a man playing God, forcing living, breathing beings into his twisted puppet show in the name of… what? Teaching the world a _lesson_? 

_If you kill him, Lilly becomes a shadow box on his fucking wall._

“Logan, please,” Veronica pleaded. “Don’t give in.”

The sky burned as he burned, razing a world where Lilly Kane no longer breathed. He drew a deep breath and held it, pleading with God, angels, the universe, any force in existence to give him the strength to drop his gun and walk away. To surrender to Veronica, to let the justice system dole out its worst for Doe. His shuddering hand shifted an inch in her direction and he grimaced. His chest _ached_ at the thought of mercy for this murdering bastard. But this was the job. This was what he would do, for Lilly—

_She leaned against the wall, watching as the ward nurse departed with her cart. Logan grimaced as his legs spasmed beneath the blankets, his teeth chattering._

_“Chills still bad, babe?”_

_“Yeah. Come and go.”_

_Lilly frowned, shrugging off her wool coat and laying it over him. “Here, that should help for a while.”_

_She was right, of course. It felt heavy and safe, like an embrace. Like the feel of her body atop his chest in their bed at home. God, he wanted to go home. But that was not happening anytime soon, judging from the evasive answers of the medical staff and Lilly’s reluctance to discuss the topic._

_“Lilz?” He swallowed hard, the cotton-mouthed feeling from the sedatives frustrating. “Thank you. For… you know.”_

_She settled on the edge of the bed, stroking his hair back lovingly. “Hey, no thanks needed. We are family. I will love you forever, Logan Echolls. I will always take care of you, always protect you. If you’re sick, if you’re hurt, I am here for you. If it came to it, I would kill for you. I would die for you, alright?”_

_She leaned down, kissing his cracked lips softly. “Rest, Lo.”_

His splinted fist struck his chest as he blinked and the fire, it roared, roared until there was red. Lilly stood among the flames, dressed in white. His angel of mercy. _Blink_. John Doe kneeled before the hospital bed as Lilly smiled warmly, walking towards him. Flames licked the walls as she stretched out her palm.

_“I would kill for you,”_ she promised him.

_I would kill for you, too_.

Raising his arm, he fired a single shot into Doe’s chest. Lilly exhaled and smiled. 

_“I love you, Lo.”_

He emptied his clip into Doe, every bullet punctuated with a cry of grief. The flames receded slowly as the trigger _click-click-clicked_ , the bullets spent from the Glock.

_Blink_. High-tension wires. The lifeless, bloody corpse of John Doe, his orange jumpsuit soaked in crimson, eyes open wide in surprise. On the dusty earth between them, the crumpled form of Veronica Mars lay face-down, her hand outstretched towards him.

A whimper escaped his lips as Logan’s gun slid from his hand. “Veronica?”

She wasn’t moving. Oh fuck, she wasn’t moving.

Falling to the ground beside her, Logan reached for her wrist in an anguished search for signs of life.

“VERONICA?!”

[Story Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/074NxDR14f9ZBfXlo8ZaAV?si=3mjw9DU8QLai9j2iHVINgQ)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a deep breath. 
> 
> I am sorry. So sorry. So very sorry.
> 
> After chapter 10, come to Discord, because I will tell you how I tried to save her. Because I DID. Multiple ways. 
> 
> The aftermath begins this weekend...


	10. After:  A Thousand Tons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this were the movie Se7en, we'd be finished. Cue the night sky, a cruiser... a darkness...
> 
> But we've done something different here. We're changing the story. You deserve more than that. You deserve answers. You deserve hope. Give me two chapters, and we'll get there.
> 
> Click play on this week's song, and settle in. If you haven't figured out who Doe is, what Veronica realized at the end of chapter 8, or how we're getting to that LoVe I promised you, this is where I shine a light...
> 
> Your Music: A Thousand Tons - Matthew Good

**AFTER: A Thousand Tons**

**_"'Cause what you see_ **   
**_Is what’s left of a thousand tons_ **   
**_Of rusted steel_ **   
**_Done up to look like it can run_ **

**_Life in the capture of the after of what used to be_ **   
**_All a thousand tons eventually..."_ **

**A Thousand Tons - Matthew Good**

**Seven Days Later**

“Please, take a seat.”

The boardroom was full: three representatives from Internal Affairs; two union lawyers; Marcia Langdon; Captain Keith Mars; a mediator; a stenographer; and one remaining chair waiting for a hapless detective to unfurl a tale of a suspect killed in police custody.

“This is becoming a habit, Lieutenant Mars,” an older white male with an uncanny resemblance to Sean Connery remarked bitterly.

“Objection, request the remark be stricken. Prejudicial,” her union representation demanded.

“Granted,” the mediator replied. “Please proceed with appropriate questioning.”

“My client was cleared in previous hearings and indeed, was in life-threatening peril. She will not be answering any questions related to the prior incident,” her lawyer stressed.

“So noted,” a second Internal Affairs investigator replied, this one a polished Latina in a neatly pressed pantsuit and white blouse.

The crutches rattled as she hobbled across the grey carpet and collapsed into the broad leather chair with an unceremonious _plop._ She nodded to her representation as she propped the crutches against the table and adjusted her left leg to the odd splayed angle that proved least painful. _Mild meniscus tear_ , the orthopedic surgeon had told her. _Should heal on its own_.

“Let’s start from the afternoon, when Mr. Manning entered 14th Precinct and turned himself in,” the third investigator announced.

Veronica unbuttoned her blazer and looked to her father for strength. That first night had been a haze of grief and pain, but the next morning, as she’d been left to lie in her father’s guest room bed, clutching her childhood plush unicorn and weeping into a pillow, she’d zeroed in on John Doe’s comments about being a father. His longing, specifically, to replace Lilly’s father—to find a daughter. 

His eyes, a piercing blue-grey, had unnerved her on that fateful drive beyond the city limits. It had taken the morning broadcast of his mug shot to confirm what her subconscious sensed. Lizzie Manning had phoned the precinct hours later, distraught yet defiant.

 _“That monster doesn’t get to hide from what he’s done,”_ she’d informed dispatch. _“His name is Stewart Manning, and I hope he burns in hell.”_

Slowly, referring to her official reports, Veronica detailed the surrender and arrest of Stewart Manning, known then as John Doe. She took care to detail his lawyer’s offer, including the threat to plead insanity, should they not agree to drive him to an unknown destination to retrieve the final two victims.

“Did you consider that officers or the public might be endangered by complying with his demands?” the male investigator probed.

“The final decision lay with Captain Mars,” she replied firmly. “However, we were offered a full confession and were under no illusions that this was a simple trip to a burial site. Detective Echolls and I assumed that Mr. Manning had intentionally turned himself in as part of a larger plan, one that would lead to a spectacle. We countered with precautions to minimize risk to ourselves and the public, improve our situational awareness and had ETF as back-up.”

Her knee pulsed within its splint, but she dared not let the pain show. She would offer them no sign of weakness. It was critical she maintain composure now.

“Please describe the events of the drive from the precinct to the access road where Mr. Manning directed you.”

Veronica continued her narrative, aided now by the transcripts from their wires and the GPS log from the cruiser. She recalled the turns she’d made, and her observations of Manning’s demeanor: his enthusiasm as they approached the scene; the way he’d spoken of his so-called work. 

“Did Detective Echolls exhibit any signs of unprofessionalism or a personal vendetta against the suspect?”

_“Every single killer thinks he’s got a message, a lesson he’s gotta teach someone, some… justification. There’s no lesson in violence. No one learns from violence! No one is going to learn from your murders, or your little shadow boxes of death trinkets or—“_

_Her hand reached out for him, steadying a soul in anguish. It took one to know the turmoil._

“No. Detective Echolls expressed opinions based on his history of childhood abuse, but he recognized his emotional response and took a moment to regroup. At no time did he express any desire to harm the suspect in the vehicle, or any unprofessional conduct.”

Veronica reached for her water glass and took a long sip, steadying her nerves. These people had no idea of the man Logan Echolls was, nor had they ever been faced with the trauma he’d endured one week ago. She defied them to fare better.

She continued to calmly recite the timeline: their arrival at the RV; Manning’s insistence that they walk past the broken-down van; the arrival of the delivery vehicle. The moment where she’d made the decision to approach the vehicle and intercept it on her own, discovering the reason why Manning’s offer had come with a precise time and date.

“And what did you observe inside the package, Lieutenant?”

Veronica’s lower lip trembled as she stared up at the fluorescent lights and inhaled sharply. Her father urged her to take her time, earning a soft rebuke from an investigator. Brushing away tears, she told them. She told them of the image that haunted her now. Two blondes tormented her sleep, neither of whom she’d been able to save. Two friends she’d remember in horrific ways she longed to erase.

Her only comfort was that in pursuing the delivery vehicle, she’d spared Logan that nightmare loop.

“What happened next?”

_I failed._

“I assessed the situation and understood that based on Manning’s patterned killings, his intention was to entice Detective Echolls to become the representation of Wrath,” Veronica continued. “I then reasoned, since every sinner had been punished with death, that the moment Detective Echolls complied, some deadly event would befall him or both of us in that field. Accordingly, I urged ETF and our air support to remain at a distance to prevent loss of life.”

In her internship at Quantico, Veronica had learned a great deal about interrogation and going undercover—specifically, the art of building a history. As she leaned in, she kept her arms uncrossed as she talked.

_Nothing to hide and approachable._

The older male investigator ( _Cooper_ , his nameplate read) tapped his pen on his notepad. “The operation lost contact with you after that command. Your mic was found near the delivery truck. Did you deliberately disconnect your microphone to avoid being recorded?”

“Of course not. I did, however, break into a fast-paced run with no consideration for the device, nor did I check on it once I reached Detective Echolls and the suspect. It’s entirely possible it fell out when I ran. It may have been partially dislodged as I sprinted for our cruiser to intercept the delivery vehicle in the first place. I cannot comment beyond stating it was not intentional.”

 _Liar_. She didn’t care. She’d made the best choice to protect Logan, and most of what was said was picked up on Logan’s mic in the end. 

“So you ran towards Detective Echolls and Mr. Manning,” the younger male investigator queried. “When you reached them, how would you describe their respective demeanors?”

“Manning was detailing the murder of Lilly Kane for Detective Echolls. He was understandably distraught, having just been informed that the box I’d been examining contained her remains,” Veronica spat. “Echolls asked me what had happened by the truck and was in a state of shock and denial. His pupils were dilated, he was staring through me, and his body was trembling. When I pushed him backwards to place space between him and the suspect for safety, his skin felt clammy to the touch.”

At Quantico, she’d learned the value of details. Of laying a foundation. Of painting a picture that others could related to. Her brush was precise as she recalled her plea for Logan to focus, to understand as she did that this was Manning’s intention: he was to become Wrath, and in turn, be punished. That she was reaching out to his rational side to push past the immediate trauma long enough to secure the scene.

“It is around this point that the transcript ends,” the female investigator— _Lopes_ —remarks. “Do you know what happened to the microphone Detective Echolls was wearing?”

_Yes._

_Her hands gripped his vest, pushing him backwards once more. Plan A had failed, but she had sensed it might. She understood Logan, knew he was someone driven by loyalty and heart._

_It was why she’d tugged the tiny listening device to the edge of his vest on that first contact, feeling it out. A reconnaissance. Her years of PI work with her father had taught her plenty about the technology, of course._

_Her fingers slid over the rim of the Kevlar as she locked eyes with him. She urged him to remember Lilly, pleaded with him to hear her, cognizant of the irony of her words as her fingernail flicked a tiny lever with enough force to hopefully disable his microphone._

_Plan B would count on it._

“No, I don’t. He struggled with me when I repeatedly tried to separate him from Manning and obtain his weapon. I cannot comment further.”

In her periphery, her father studied her intently. If anyone could nudge each piece of this intricate puzzle into place, it would be him. Luckily for her, he wouldn’t dare reveal her deception.

“What happened after you said… _‘You cannot give him the satisfaction. You cannot let him have what he wants’_?”

_Her ear piece had erupted in a flurry of shouts: her father, frantic over the loss of communications; Wallace and Booth confirming they, too, had lost sound; her father demanding constant reporting from Booth while ETF planned an approach. Her head spun, but she did not waver. They had five minutes, maybe less, before ETF made a mess of the whole damn thing. Five minutes to talk Logan down._

“I pushed Detective Echolls back, out of ear shot, and reiterated my point: that Manning’s goal was to have him shoot him and represent Wrath, and accordingly, something deadly would befall us. I pleaded with him to show restraint, or at least bait his plan out of secrecy. Echolls agreed.”

“Bait him how?” Cooper asked.

The key, she learned in Quantico, was to sell a lie on a foundation of half-truths. Sell a lie so close to the truth that you want to believe it. And she did believe it now. It was her truth, and she told it with conviction.

“Detective Echolls and I argued as we had, observing Mr. Manning’s reaction. He continued to goad Echolls, reminding him of his deceased partner. Sensing that whatever was planned was not on a timer, given Manning’s lack of _hurry up_ energy, Detective Echolls raised his weapon and feigned firing at the suspect.”

Her union lawyer winced, holding up a hand in warning, but Veronica ignored it, her focus on the investigators.

“He didn’t shoot him?” Lopes’ voice dripped with disbelief.

“No. No, he mimed it,” Veronica insisted. “And the moment he did so, that’s when I heard the pop.”

“The pop?”

Veronica nodded firmly. “Yes. It was a sound similar to firecrackers, or distant gun shots. It was terrifying, especially after Manning had taken shots at us the other day.”

“What direction did this _pop_ seem to come from?” Cooper asked.

“Behind Manning,” Veronica replied. “The RV was behind him, a good fifty feet away. I assumed it could be coming from there. I’d looked in through the windows but admittedly, I hadn’t cleared it with a search inside.”

Veronica sipped her water as the investigators reached for a map of the scene, knowing they were reviewing the relative locations of herself, Manning and the RV. _Go ahead_ , she silently urged them. _It adds up_.

“How did you and Detective Echolls respond to this noise?” Cooper probed.

_He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking through her, pupils wide, irises black. His mouth moved, formless speech sputtering from his lungs as his shaky hand aimed at their prisoner._

_She stepped closer, edging out of the line of fire. “Logan, no…”_

_“Lilly.”_

_Her name was a prayer from his lips, and in that moment, she knew he was lost to her. His finger curled around the trigger and she dove for the ground, the shot ringing in her ears as a searing pain rendered her left leg immobile._

“I hit the ground for cover, as my weapon had been holstered and I was defenseless. Detective Echolls neutralized a perceived threat to our safety.”

Lopes scoffed, reaching for her coffee. “A shackled man? He emptied his clip.”

“While in a dissociative state, as that shackled man coordinated the delivery of his girlfriend’s partial remains and arranged for shots to be taken at us,” Veronica countered. “After the shooting, Detective Echolls was barely able to speak, confusing names of persons at the scene… It was very concerning, and we immediately arranged for him to be transported for evaluation.” 

“So in your opinion, Detective Echolls acted lawfully?” Roberts, the youngest investigator, chimed in.

 _No, but Manning’s daughters have made it clear that they don’t want Logan punished._ “Yes. We believed our lives to be in danger and that fear, combined with acute trauma, led to the event at hand. I believe that Detective Echolls, in a state of duress, responded appropriately to a threat to the life of two law enforcement officers.” Shifting in her seat, she looked to her union lawyer. “My leg is bothering me in this chair.”

“Will there be more questions? If so, I must request a recess, given my client’s medical condition, which was suffered in the line of duty.”

The investigators bowed their heads together, whispering for a moment, before Lopes spoke. “No, I think we have what we need. You’re excused, Lieutenant Mars.”

“Thank you.”

Her father was on his feet, looping his arm beneath her and handing over her crutches. She smiled gratefully and gripped them firmly.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he whispered.

With a small nod, she left the boardroom, the _click-clang_ of the crutches an almost soothing metronome for her frazzled nerves.

Had she done enough? Had she said too little? Too much? Her lawyer had coached her effectively, in her opinion, and her training in covert operations was highly beneficial. While she knew no one would convict him—particularly if they knew his state that night—she desperately wanted to spare him the circus.

Spare him revisiting the desert that haunted her dreams, every single night…

 _One shot. Two, three, four, five, six_. _She cowered on the ground, the gritty sand stinging her lips as she fought the urge to weep._

_She was here, and not here. Her cheeks were pressed into dirt, and pressed against parquet. Her eyes closed and Meg’s shattered skull stared at her, asking Veronica to save her. She opened them and a crimson pool crept closer to her outstretched palm from the wide-eyed corpse of Doe. Close them shut, and Lilly stared at her, damning her for her failings._

_If she stayed here, maybe she could trade herself for them. She was so tired of being the one left to bear witness._

_Her name whispered on the wind, but she pressed her cheek into the dirt and closed her mouth, drowning herself in the desert air. A second call, louder this time. Closer. A hand upon her wrist, encircling it. Pulling it from her, unraveling her body as her mind had done, long ago._

_Her head raised slightly, her legs shifted. She yelped in pain as Logan’s face appeared before her._

_“Are you hit? Oh God, did I hurt you?”_

_“No, I’m not hit—“_

_“Fuck, if I hurt you, I can’t take it. I can’t take that.”_

_“You didn’t hurt me,” she insisted, gingerly rolling onto her side. “I hurt me by diving to the groun—AHHH FUCK! FUCK!”_

_Her knee was not in favour of rolling, shifting or doing anything at all. Damn it. It was the same knee she’d clipped the other day on the fire escape. Whatever damage she’d done then, she’d amplified it ten-fold now._

_Logan was still murmuring to himself, tears streaming down his cheeks as he gently pulled her head into his lap. “Protect you… can’t hurt… protect… So sorry…. Lilly… So sorry, Lilly…”_

_His hands smoothed over her hair and Veronica realized that maybe Logan didn’t recognize her anymore. That maybe she was… a dead girl. The knife twisted deep, but she remained in his arms as he alternately called her ‘Veronica’ and ‘Lilly’ until the ETF came to collect them…_

Hobbling out into the midday sun, Veronica nodded to Detective Ratner and gritted her teeth. _One ramp, a few more steps, then you’re at the bench. Call an Uber and you can go home for some Netflix and chill—as in ice pack_. She growled and hurried down the ramp, too frustrated to take her time. It hurt like hell, but a minute later, she was tapping in her Uber request on the bench.

“Is this seat taken?”

Her finger froze over the screen at the sound of the warm, deep voice beside her. She’d heard it once before, two days after the shooting. A phone call, one she’d believed a prank as it had seemed so strange. 

_“I’m calling to advise you that my services are available to you in perpetuity, Ms. Mars.”_

Glancing beside her, she studied the slender, yet muscular Black man in the grey bespoke suit. His expression was neutral, his gaze cast over the teeming crowd on the sidewalk surrounding them.

“Depends on who you are, which you’ve yet to explain.”

“Clarence Wiedman. I’m a friend of the Kane family.” He took the seat beside her, inviting himself to stay.

She’d heard the name before, but where? _Think Veronica…OH!_

“Lilly mentioned you. You got Duncan out of the hospital for her.”

Clarence nodded. “I make things happen. I handle security for Kane Software. I also handled security matters privately for Ms. Kane and her family.” He paused as a group of tourists approached, laughing and jostling each other. “Ms. Kane had a list of people she considered family. My orders are to protect them.”

“Even though… Even with Lilly…”

“I have been and continue to be compensated, yes,” Clarence replied. “Ms. Kane’s list is small: Duncan Kane; Logan Echolls; and you, Ms. Mars.”

“Me?” Veronica frowned, shifting sideways. “I knew her for less than a week.”

“Ms. Kane called me last Friday to update the list.” Reaching into his blazer pocket, Clarence extracted a ring of keys and a small white card. “I have a vehicle waiting, if you need a ride somewhere. Otherwise, this is my card. Do not hesitate to contact me.”

“Um, I think I’ll take the Uber, if you don’t mind. But thanks.” 

Veronica plucked the card from his hand, reading the neat printing. It was his Kane Software business card, with a separate number written on the back—a personal cell, she assumed. Nonplussed, Clarence rose and turned away, heading towards the east lot.

“Hey, wait!”

He glanced over his shoulder expectantly. 

“Logan… His visitation is restricted. Can you fix that?”

She’d tried to visit twice, having been turned away both times. _His medical directives state that only Lilly Kane or those she authorizes may enter_ , was the brick wall she kept hitting her head off of.

“Give me a day,” Clarence replied.

For the first time in a week, Veronica smiled all the way to her eyes. “Thank you.”

* * *

The jingle of keys in the lock signaled the return of her father at the end of the work day. As much as she wanted to hurry to the door and help her father with the large paper bags of food he was hefting in his arms, her knee was pulsing with pain and the ice pack felt too good to leave the comfort of the couch.

“You okay?” she called out.

“Don’t worry about me, kiddo. You rest your leg.” Keith huffed loudly, dropping his keys on the table by the door and smiling. “I got all of your favourites: manicotti, garlic bread, lasagna, and tiramisu for dessert.”

“Sounds great. What are you eating?” she quipped.

Keith chuckled as he headed into the kitchen. “Whatever scraps you leave behind, bottomless pit of my loins.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to _never_ mention me and your loins in the same sentence?”

Veronica turned off the TV and adjusted the pillow beneath her knee, elevating it higher. Maybe she would cave tonight and take a painkiller to sleep. She hated the damn things, but this supposed _minor tear_ felt anything but.

Keith joined her in the living room, passing her a plate loaded with a healthy serving of each pasta and a wedge of garlic bread. Setting his own heaping plate down, he retreated to the kitchen briefly for a tall glass of Coke—scratch that. A whiff of scotch drifted up her nostrils. Her dad had fixed himself a drink.

Veronica nervously speared a bite of pasta. “That bad, huh?”

Taking a swig of his drink, Keith sighed. “Veronica, what do you want me to say?”

“Are they going to charge Logan?”

It was her sole concern now. Her career was already over. His had only just begun to peak.

“I don’t think so,” he replied quietly. “Marcia knows it will be a PR nightmare. The Kanes are powerful, and do not support charges. Your testimony supports a _non compos mentis_ defense. The jury will be sympathetic to Logan’s grief.”

“Then it’s settled.” 

Veronica devoured a bite of lasagna, savouring the cheesy goodness. _Bless you, Mama Leone’s._

“No, it’s not settled!” Keith sat his plate aside with a loud _clang_ of his fork. “You played me, Veronica. You endangered your partner, and you endangered yourself.”

“By telling you to stay back?” she deflected.

“By deliberately disconnecting the microphones, and don’t even try to deny it.” His eyes narrowed as she moved to speak and her mouth clamped shut. “You worked in the field for four years with me. You knew exactly what you were doing. You may have Internal Affairs fooled, but not me.”

 _Damn it._ Setting her meal down, she knew this was a discussion that was a week overdue.

“I thought I could get through to Logan. I understood him. I almost _did_ get through to him. And when I didn’t… I protected him. That’s what partners do, Dad. It’s what I should have done for Meg. I wasn’t going to fail him like I failed her.”

She hugged a throw pillow to her chest, staring out the window beside her. The quiet suburban street was at rest: cars parked, lights dim and lemon-yellow, soft and non-threatening. 

“I care about him too, honey. He’s a good man. I just think… we could have protected him the right way.”

Maybe they could have. Maybe Marcia would have declined the charges anyway, had she heard Logan muttering to himself as he cradled Veronica in his arms on the hot earth. She wasn’t built to take chances. Not anymore. Not after Meg.

It all came back to her, after all. 

Stewart Manning had been estranged from his family for a long time—ever since Meg had reported him to social services at the age of thirteen. His wife and the three daughters had packed up their lives and moved in with Meg’s aunt in Seattle. It was a scholarship to San Diego State that had brought Meg back to California, and eventually, the 14th Precinct.

As Lizzie has explained over Skype three days ago, when Meg’s funeral was arranged, her father had not just been excluded from the invitations; security had been asked to bar him from entering. While Veronica and Keith were given seating among the immediate family in recognition of their close relationship with Meg, Stewart was arrested and escorted off the premises when he’d shown up of his accord.

An abusive father, shunned and denied closure, found himself consumed by the religious study group he’d formed years ago. Aaron Echolls, Lucky Dohanic, Deborah Hauser… A collection of misfits, carefully chosen by Stewart Manning for their vulnerability, their information, or their obedience—sometimes, all three—fueled his anger and were plied for information. What began as a simple grudge for being denied a space at Meg’s funeral soon festered into a deep resentment of not only Veronica, but those he deemed _sinners_. A resentment that became what Stewart deemed _a calling_. One he planned for extensively, even training with Aaron’s former combat coaches. 

Aaron, of course, had denied knowledge of Stewart’s true intentions when questioned by her father. It had been about _fitness_ and _trying new things_. Veronica didn’t buy it, but she was powerless to act on her hunch.

She fidgeted with a loose thread on the pillow, avoiding her father’s stare. “So, I should turn in my badge, right?”

“No one’s said that, but since you’re intent on returning to Stanford anyway…”

“It’s okay, Dad. I made my bed. And Logan?”

Keith shrugged. “Who knows if he’ll… want to come back?”

A fair point. Unlike her, he didn’t need the money. As she reached for her dinner, suddenly longing for the comfort of carbs, her father’s hand seized hers, squeezing it gently.

“Veronica, there’s something else you need to know.”

Her stomach dropped as her father’s body began to tremble. “Dad… what is it? What’s wrong?”

The clock on the wall ticked softly as Keith stared at their joined hands. “The guys going through Manning’s journals… Some of them are about his plans.”

“Okay. That proves premeditation. That’s a good thing. It proves he planned to provoke—“

“Some of them were about you, Veronica!”

 _Oh_ … Gingerly, she swung her legs to the floor, ignoring the shooting pain in her leg. She needed to see her dad, really see him. Illuminated by the table lamp between them, the deep shadows ringing his eyes evoked a troubling déjà vu of times she longed to forget. Her mother leaving. The scandals of Neptune. The week she’d spent in bed after Meg’s death.

“What did they say?”

“Before Logan was hired and he met him…. I was supposed to be Wrath.” Keith shook his head quickly, as if to dispel the image. “A daughter for a daughter. That’s how he put it.” 

She threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him as a tear slid down her cheek. There were things in this world no one should ever see. 

“A daughter for a daughter,” Keith murmured, hugging her tightly. 

The knife lodged in her heart since Meg’s shooting twisted deeper. _It should have been me. Not Lilly. It should have been me_.

* * *

The nurse carried her coffee to the table, setting it down by the chair closest to the exit. Veronica hobbled slowly behind her on her solitary crutch—a compromise struck with the staff. 

She was willing to meet their conditions, no matter how absurd they seemed.

“He doesn’t speak,” the silver-haired woman informed her, smoothing her scrubs. “He will nod and shake his head, so there is communication.” She frowned, glaring at Veronica’s crutch. “Are you certain you need that while seated in here?”

“Yes. I may want to walk to the window, or stand and stretch. I am legally entitled to my mobility device under the ADA.”

“Hmm.” The nurse was unconvinced, but abandoned her protests. “There is an emergency call button beneath the table, and we will of course be watching on the camera in that corner. Someone will be just outside the door, in case there’s trouble.”

Veronica shook her head in disbelief. “Thank you, but it won’t be necessary. Logan won’t hurt me.”

The heavy metal door behind them swung open with a soft _screech_ and Veronica held her breath as first a muscular young man in scrubs stepped into view, and then, the man she had fought to see. His shoulders were slumped, his t-shirt ill-fitting, his sweatpants too long. Stubble peppered his cheeks and jaw, his hair soft and messy. 

“You’ll have an hour, as long as he is comfortable,” the nurse informed her.

“Okay.”

It wasn’t okay. It wasn’t enough. But it was a start, and she would work with it. Logan’s committal was involuntary, given his emotional state, but it wasn’t criminal, which afforded them the comfort and privacy of a day room. In the centre lay a table with four chairs, where she stood now; in one corner was a TV and a sofa. Near a large picture window with barred windows, two large chairs were positioned. _A view of the prison confines._

The nurse and orderly stepped out, leaving Logan standing by the picture window. Her chest ached at the way his body swayed, as if a breeze would break him.

He was so fragile. It was terrifying.

“Logan?” she called out softly. “Logan, it’s me. Veronica.”

They’d warned him that he was medicated. A combination of sedating medications and an anti-depressant to manage his symptoms after the trauma of losing Lilly. But seeing him this way, without his usual smirks and quips… It was worse than she’d imagined.

His head lifted slowly, tilting in her direction. His pupils widened in surprise and she offered a small smile.

“Hey, you. I’m sorry I didn’t make it sooner, but they wouldn’t let me in. Family only, they said, until you were able to speak and tell them what you wanted.”

Logan frowned, but remained by the window, gripping the sill tightly.

“I know, it’s bullshit. Partners are family, right?”

Logan nodded firmly and Veronica felt lighter. _You’re in there, aren’t you?_

“It’s okay. Clarence took care of it.” 

Confusion, or perhaps surprise, crossed his features as he turned from the window. Clearly Lilly hadn’t informed him of her update to the list.

“Yeah, I was surprised too. I’m apparently a VIP now.” Leaning heavily on her crutch, she ignored the searing pain in her knee, focusing on the two steps Logan took towards her. “Oh! I bought a Bartlett’s, since you find it invaluable. Figured I could dazzle my classmates in law school, or battle you for kicks. Found a quote in there last night I thought you might like: _“Saying nothing sometimes says the most.’_ Emily Dickinson.”

He was close now, close enough to see the fine red lines marring the white of his eyes. He wasn’t sleeping. Her hand lifted to reach for him, but thought better of it. _Slowly. He’s tucked so far inside that shell_.

Veronica gestured to her chair. “I’m gonna grab a seat, because my knee is pretty screwed. Alright?”

Another nod as Logan shuffled around the table, his gait unsteady. She gingerly lowered herself into the chair, adjusting the position of her leg until the ache was mild. She’d taken half a painkiller, not wanting to risk leaving early, but it was still tender. Veronica was pleased to see Logan slide into the chair across from her.

Taking a sip of the coffee she brought, she shuddered slightly. “Ugh. How do you drink this almond crap?” Lowering her voice, she whispered, “They wouldn’t let me bring you a coffee of your own, but if I shared _my_ coffee with you, it seemed like they couldn’t stop me. It’s just how you like it. Want some?”

Logan shrugged, resting his head on the table with a heavy sigh.

“If this is too much today… If you want me to go, I won’t mind.” _I miss you, but I won’t hurt you._ “Maybe you need to rest. Maybe I should go—“

His hand stretched across the table, covering hers. It squeezed, weakly, but she understood him clearly.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll stay.”

A small nod, his head barely lifting off the surface of the table. His eyelids drooped but his eyes remained focused on her. 

_How do I keep you here? How do I keep you from slipping beneath the chemical undertow?_

She’d been there herself, after Meg’s death. Ativan was a hell of a drug, one she’d relied on in those first few weeks to sleep without screaming. But her days were a haze of conversation fragments, blurry images and lost time. Her limbs felt loose and dislocated. She hated it.

_I know what to do._

“Three things on a hospital food tray you can actually get excited about,” she announced. “I’ll go first. Pudding cups. Especially if they’re chilled because for some reason, my throat’s always scratchy and dry when I’m in a hospital.”

Logan tilted his head sideways, as if meaning to ask a question.

“What flavour? I’m a chocolate girl myself. Butterscotch is okay, vanilla will do. Rice pudding is an insult.”

His palm pressed against the table, pushing him upright in his chair. He nodded emphatically and she smiled.

“So we agree for a change? Hell’s getting chilly,” she quipped. “Okay, next: Jell-O cups. Same reason, but also, fruity. Like bursts of juice. Red is great, grape is good, orange will do but lime is gross.”

Logan nodded again, the corners of his mouth curving slightly upwards.

“Two for two! If we get a perfect match, you have to buy me lunch at Ricky’s for a year. No lying, though.” Veronica pondered the question, mulling hospital trays she’d seen in the past. “Oh, cookies of course. Those oatmeal ones I never eat any other time. Dad’s cookies. They’re tasty.”

Logan’s nose wrinkled as he shook his head quickly.

“Oh, come on! You just don’t want to buy me lunch!” Veronica protested.

Logan glared at her, rolling his eyes.

“Right, right, millionaire. So what’s better than cookies, hmm?”

Nothing, of course. Cookies were amazing. That was the beauty of the question, in her mind: she would ask, and Logan wouldn’t answer. 

“ _Or—“_

She leaned across the table as far as she could, listening intently. “What was that?”

“Oranges,” Logan whispered hoarsely.

“Oranges,” she echoed, nudging the coffee across the table. “Why do you love seeing them on a hospital tray?”

He’d spoken a word. His first word, maybe, since the cruiser door had slammed shut. Her father’s voice, weary but reassuring, echoed in her mind: _“We’ll make sure he’s taken care of. Whatever he needs.”_

Logan’s fingers curled around the paper cup, dragging it closer. Veronica watched with baited breath as his shaking hand lifted it to his lips, tilting it slightly. A sip, maybe. But progress.

“It’s perfect. You’re welcome,” she teased lightly. “Now, oranges…”

“Oranges,” he echoed quietly, setting the cup down. “The smell. It…” He paused, blinking hard. “Sorry. The lights… hurt.”

“Close them, then,” she suggested. “It’s okay. Talk to me.”

_Please, please, keep talking. I won’t lose you in there._

His eyelids drooped low, but those chocolate irises peeked through his lashes as he spoke, softly. Slowly. Every word seemed weighty, hefted with all his might.

“Citrus… reminds me of the beach. Ocean. It… Surfing. I think of surfing.” He licked his chapped lips, his hands fidgeting on the table. “Surfing is safe. Home.”

“Oranges make you feel like home.”

“Hope,” Logan amended. “Hope.”

“That’s beautiful. Definitely better than a package of cookies.” 

A tear slid down his cheek as his eyes opened once more, staring intently at her. Her hand instinctively reached out to brush it aside. The bewilderment on his face gave her pause. _Did I overstep? He’s my friend, and he’s hurting._

“Drink more of that coffee, please. I don’t know how you stand that nutty gunk,” she rambled, pulling her hand away.

A mumble, something close to a thank you, but at least he was drinking it. Her heart raced as they sat in silence: Logan occasionally sipping coffee; Veronica feeling desperately out of her depth. Her father would know what to say. He was wise and thoughtful, and endlessly kind. She was jaded and broken, her battered heart barricaded in a bathroom with a bottle of whiskey, refusing to come out ever again. She didn’t speak the language he needed to hear.

Thirty minutes left. Time was slipping away.

“Logan?”

A glassy stare.

“What do you need right now? I mean… from me? I… Do you want me to talk to you, or sit with you or…? I just want to help you.”

“Stay.”

That was easy. “I’m not leaving until they make me leave. I promise.”

Logan nodded, swaying in his seat as he glanced around the room. “Window?”

Veronica glanced over his shoulder. “You want to sit by the window? We can do that.”

Logan rose slowly, catching himself on the table. Veronica reached for her crutch, cursing the clattering it made. He paused at the sound, turning in her direction. The sadness in his eyes as he noticed the brace on her knee nearly broke her.

“It’s okay. Two hits in one week was too much. Should be fine in a week or two.”

“Help.”

“You need help?”

Logan shook his head furiously. “Help _you_.”

Veronica’s jaw fell slack as Logan moved to her left side, waving away the crutch. His arm slid around her upper back as he hunched down, offering her support.

“Lean on me?”

“Okay. Thank you.”

She brought the crutch, just in case, but it wasn’t necessary. Like the stories of mothers who pull cars off children in moments of duress, Logan had seemingly drawn strength from a secret reserve, walking her to the chair by the barred window. He sat in the chair to her left, staring vacantly at the wooded lot beyond the bars. 

In her mind, she imagined what he might see in those woods: escape; freedom; a place to hide from the misery in his mind. Or perhaps, he saw kindling for a fire, a way to burn it all to the ground. Was the forest a symbol of a man lost within himself? Was it just a fucking forest, and was she overthinking the thoughts of a bereaved man in a mental health facility?

Her hand stretched across the distance between them, seeking answers. His right hand met her in the middle, clinging to her like a lifeline. 

_I won’t let go, Logan. You’re not alone._

Veronica protested when the nurse returned to take Logan away, but relented when she noticed he was drifting off to sleep in the chair. Reluctantly, she released his hand, whispering a goodbye as an orderly offered to help her back to reception. 

His arm across her back was cold and stiff. He didn’t hunch for her. He was a human crutch without the clang. 

As she signed out, her ride appeared beside her at the desk. “Did it go well?”

Tucking her crutches beneath her arms, she pivoted and smiled. “Yeah. He spoke to me.”

Clarence’s eyes widened. “Really? That’s promising, Ms. Mars.”

“I agree.”

Her painkiller was wearing off, that familiar pulse in her knee resurfacing, but it could not diminish the spark within her. That tiny, delicate flame, ignited by a touch of a hand, and fragments of thoughts entrusted to her care.

Clarence held open the passenger door to his Lexus and helped her inside before tucking her crutches in the backseat. As strange as his sudden appearance in her life had been, she was grateful for his assistance—and he seemed genuinely concerned about Logan’s well-being. That mattered to her.

“I’ll take you home?” A question, not a statement.

“Yes, please… Wait, can we make a stop on the way?” 

Clarence turned over the ignition, revving the engine. “Of course. Where would you like to go?”

Veronica stared at the hospital complex, fighting back tears. “There’s a bodega a few blocks from my dad’s place… It sells the best oranges.”  
  


[Story Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/074NxDR14f9ZBfXlo8ZaAV?si=YE94ExkTSa2ekQ1N0Yrd7A)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is coming soon. Promise.
> 
> For my Discord readers, you can ask me anything on alternate endings, alternate scenes etc over there now... anything except what happens in chapter 11. I'm feeling chatty. Just don't bring up oranges unless you bring Kleenex.


	11. After:  Winning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of a story... I know you've been doubting me along the way. This is where I make good on all of my promises.
> 
> The playlist ends with the original version of the song this chapter is named for, but the version I've been spinning is a cover by July Talk. Give it a click when two people meet in a driveway. You're welcome.
> 
> This last chapter is for Chikabiddy, who nurtured this story more than you know, who read it without knowing the movie, who let me break her heart on Skype and apologize in person. My cheerleader when I'm sure every word I write is trash and should be deleted. If you love this story, it's because I write to impress her, and because she brings the best feedback. Thank her too.
> 
> Your Music: Winning (Emily Haines and the Soft Skeleton cover) - July Talk

**AFTER: Winning**

_**"What's a wolf without a pack?  
Open your chest and take the heart from it  
Open your chest  
  
What's bad, we'll fix it  
What's wrong, we'll make it alright, alright  
It's gone, we'll find it  
Takes so long, we've got time  
All the time..."** _

**Winning - Emily Haines and The Soft Skeleton ([Logan and Veronica version here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fqHKyeeKllc))**

**5 Months Later**

The trilling of her phone startled her awake, notebooks and pens scattering across the bed as her arms flailed. Veronica groaned loudly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she blindly pawed the night stand, snatching the offending phone from beside her and staring at the screen.

Seeing the name on the display, she hurriedly hit answer.

“What’s wrong?”

_“And a good morning to you too, Veronica.”_

“Are you seriously criticizing my phone etiquette, Clarence? I may be retired, but I’m still licensed to carry,” she griped. “Logan. What’s wrong?”

She swung her legs out of bed and crossed the room, yanking open her top drawer. _I can make the drive in four hours if I floor it_. _Pack in twenty…_

Clarence sighed loudly on the other end. _“Your pessimism is unhealthy, albeit shared by myself. In this case, it’s unwarranted. Nothing is wrong.”_

Veronica slammed her underwear drawer, dropping a pair of bras on the carpet. “Then why are you calling me at six in the morning on a Saturday?”

_“Because Logan has requested your help with an urgent favour, and time seemed of the essence. I could have called at midnight last night—“_

“A better choice, for the record,” Veronica whined, staring at the Sentencing and Penal Policy text on her bed. “What does he need? And why didn’t he call me himself?”

Clarence was quiet for some time, a curious and rare state of being. He was a man who always had an answer… unless…

“Logan doesn’t know you’ve called me, does he?”

_“He may have mentioned your exam on Monday,”_ Clarence admitted.

Bingo. Logan had wanted her help, but changed his mind when he remembered next week was finals. Sinking down on her bed, Veronica sighed. _Three hours’ sleep is not enough. Clarence owes me some serious coffee for this._

As for Logan…

“What does he need, Clarence?”

_“A new home. The hospital is discharging him next Friday.”_

Her heart began to race as she combed her fingers through the tangled mess of waves cascading down her shoulders. _He’s being released. He’s leaving the hospital. Which means… Fuck._

It meant they would have to talk about… _everything_. The little touches. The way he’d beg her to stay. The way he could bore a hole into her soul with one look and claim it for his own. 

The kiss goodbye at the end of her last visit, and how he’d run away afterwards.

“That’s good news! I’m glad he’s feeling strong enough to leave. To go home.” She was rambling. She was so fucking obvious. “But what do I have to do with him finding a home?”

_“He says you would know what he needs in a residence.”_

“That’s stupid. I wouldn’t know any more than you would,” she protested. “He needs security, of course. Seclusion. Privacy.”

_“Yes, of course,”_ Clarence agreed. _“Which is why I suggested the gated community in the West Hills or a condo in Studio City—“_

“Ugh, no! Logan hated the pretension of his childhood home,” Veronica interrupted, digging through her bedside drawer for a package of licorice. “A gated community is a soul-sucking hell. Studio City will attract paparazzi. No good. Plus, he likes to surf. You need somewhere like Dick’s place, but less fancy, since the paps will look for someone like him around there. Is he willing to head to Neptune? I know a beach in Neptune.”

The gears were spinning, as she catalogued possibilities. Off the beach, she had two neighbourhoods in mind where he could blend in and disappear; on a beach, she had one wild idea that might pan out, thanks to a post she’d spotted two days ago on Facebook. 

In the back of her mind, a voice whispered: _Or maybe he could start fresh up the coast._

_“I see why he wanted to solicit your advice. Email me a shortlist of prospects by Tuesday. Money is no concern.”_

“Hey, wait! I have exams!”

_“I could have them waived.”_

“Really? Wait, no!” _Maybe? No, bad Veronica!_ “I’d like to earn my law degree with the same amount of sobbing and exhaustion as anyone else, but thank you.”

_“Then taking a few hours to house hunt should contribute nicely. I look forward to your input, Ms. Mars.”_

As the call disconnected, Veronica tossed her phone at her pillow and growled. Goddamn Clarence and his smart-assed, sneaky schemes! Didn’t he work for her? 

Shoving her books aside, she stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes. _Logan is leaving the hospital._ _Just in time for the holidays_ , she noted. A holiday where he would be alone.

“Not alone,” she whispered. “He has me, and Dad.”

_Unless he’s weirded out by the kiss. He recruited Clarence to ask you for this favour so…_

“Ugh!”

Hugging her pillow to her chest, Veronica surrendered to her exhaustion. Whatever had happened—was happening?—between them, it didn’t matter. What mattered was finding him a safe place to come home to.

Right after she got a few hours’ sleep.

* * *

The waves rolled gently over his feet, the water unforgivingly frigid. The waning moon overhead offered a scant sliver of light, enough to know the beach was, expectedly, empty.

Few fools ventured out on a December night, even in California. Five months in confinement, however, meant the proverbial beggar could not choose. He needed the salty air in his lungs, the grit of sand between his toes. He needed to know the water was still waiting to bear his weight, to buoy him through his darkest days.

Tucked inside his jacket pocket was an orange. A welcome home gift from _her_.

Logan fell back on the sand, staring up at the stars. The home she’d chosen for him was perfect. He’d known it would be. She knew him so well: knew his fears, his dislikes, what put him at ease and what set his teeth on edge. He’d wanted her to bring him home, to show him the refuge she’d chosen, but he’d talked himself out of it.

Instead, he’d called Dick, who’d dutifully shown up in his Corvette without judgment—just a warm hug and a reassurance that his new home was “ _pretty sweet_ ”. They’d planned a surfing trip for March, a week away to a destination as yet unknown. Their annual trip had been pre-empted by his hospital stay—the first miss in fifteen years. If it had bothered Dick, he said nothing.

He was a good friend, loyal and simple in his needs. Companionship, occasional advice, and trust. 

The small beach house in Venice was a surprise: a tourist-driven area seemed like a disaster, until he noted the unit was far off the boardwalk, near choppier waters. The yard was fenced high, with lush palms shielding the house from view. Inside, its two bedrooms plus a converted office were a perfect fit for his needs. It was sparsely furnished, as he preferred, with a light, bright décor accented in ocean blue.

On the centre of the kitchen table sat a large bowl filled with oranges, accompanied by a small card:

_Welcome home! If you feel like venturing out for food, The Violet makes great coffee and pastries. For dinner, I recommend the pizza at Juliana’s or the tacos from the truck off the west side of the boardwalk. Call me when you’re settled. - V_

He’d spent the entire day scrolling to her number, hovering over it and cancelling out. It didn’t feel right to call her, not while he was still haunted by another blonde dressed in white.

Two boxes sat in the corner of the spare bedroom, untouched. Items that Clarence and Duncan insisted Logan should look through. Her clothing had been donated already to domestic violence shelters or auctioned off to support them, depending on the pieces; Katrina and Duncan had taken charge of that for him. Toiletries had been culled. Financial papers had been secured by Clarence.

What remained inside those boxes, he knew, were the fragments of a life cut far too short, and a life not even begun.

Logan massaged his temples, inhaling sharply. He couldn’t avoid it now. The hospital, distance, it had all provided the comfort of convenient excuses. The dim solace of denial.

After those first few weeks of chaos and confusion, ending in Internal Affairs deeming the matter a complicated, tragic _suicide by cop_ , he’d turned inward, pushing away the outside world and its pain. _Traumatic amnesia_ was thrown around a lot by his doctors and lawyers, and it was sincere: he still couldn’t remember firing his weapon. But there was also the conscious forgetting, the withdrawal from society, from the life he’d built for fifteen years upon the ashes of abuse and grief. The only ones he’d permitted to stay were Clarence Wiedman and Veronica Mars.

It had been so easy to lose himself in the light of Veronica and her faithful visits (thrice weekly before Stanford; every weekend once classes resumed… well, until last month’s _disaster_ ). To smile in spite of the gaping hole in his chest when she smuggled in coffee, or sweet talked the nurses into letting her bring a full pasta dinner from her favourite restaurant. To forget himself, to let impulse drive him. To wonder how her lips would feel, and claim them with his own.

Lilly had appeared, watching their embrace. She pouted in the corner of the day room, hugging herself tightly. Hurting, because of him. He’d fled from the rush of contact, from the soft moan slipping from Veronica’s lips as his hand curved around her waist and pressed her against him. 

It was not his to have. Not his to take.

His toes stung from the icy water and he pulled them back, reluctantly rising from the sand and dusting off. If there was ever a chance that he and Veronica could have a future, he needed to find closure with his past. He needed to open the damn boxes.

As he slipped inside the rear door, his cell phone chimed. Locking it behind him, he checked his messages.

**_Veronica: You okay? You hate the house, don’t you? It’s okay, I told Clarence I didn’t know what the hell I was doing._ **

Logan tapped out a quick reply and hit send before sitting at the kitchen island. **_Care about what other people think and you will always be their prisoner – Lao Tzu. The house is perfect, Veronica. And you knew that._**

Reaching for a napkin, he slowly peeled the orange in his pocket, inhaling the fresh scent. He needed to ask where she bought them. These were perfect oranges: extra large, and the perfect balance of sweet and tart.

A chime. **_Veronica: I don’t care about what people think. I care about what you think._**

He hesitated, mulling how to reply when a second message came in.

**_Veronica: It used to be easier to figure that out._ **

He stared at the screen, cursing himself. He’d sensed the recoil in her after he’d fled their embrace, instinctively known she would retreat within her shell again and protect herself. He couldn’t blame her, not after what she’d confessed about her break-up with Norris two months ago. 

_She’s so wary, so afraid, and you scared her off before you could have a chance. Genius move!_

Popping a morsel of orange in his mouth, he tapped out a reply. **_I’m sorry, Veronica. I owe you an explanation, in person. You back in the city?_**

Her reply was swift. **_Veronica: Coming back tomorrow afternoon._**

Good. That would give him time to unpack tonight. Time to deal. Time to reckon with the ghost in his head.

**_Call me when you’re free tomorrow. Anytime. I stay up late. Drive safe._ **

He finished his orange, staring at the clock above the stove. It was nearly one in the morning, but his mind whirred with nervous energy. There would be no sleep, not until he knew what was inside the room next to his. Not until he knew what those boxes contained.

Grabbing the scissors from the kitchen, he headed upstairs.

The guest room was sparsely decorated. The walls were painted white, the queen bed covered in a grey and white striped duvet and light grey sheets. The oak furniture was classic and elegant, but cookie cutter; he suspected Duncan had chosen it.

The boxes waited beside the bed, beckoning their Pandora.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

Gingerly slitting it open, he lifted the flap and felt his chest tighten. For a moment, nightmares bled into reality: blood and blonde filled his line of sight, and he swallowed hard as he looked away and counted to ten. _It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…_ Turning back, he was relieved to see a stack of newspaper-wrapped items stacked atop photo albums. 

Living room items, he rightfully concluded as he went through them, one by one. Their framed memories, photo collages. Albums of memories. External drives of digital images. Souvenir shot glasses from their kitchen. Lilly collected them from their travels, her collection large—forty-eight, he counted as he unwrapped them. 

_This is okay_ , he decided, admiring the photo of the two of them from the Statue of Liberty. It was good to see her face again, to see her smile.

The second box was opened, and within it, he found more memories. Lilly’s sketches from her fashion program portfolio; several stuffed animals he’d gifted her early in their relationship, some he hadn’t seen in years ( _where was she hiding these?_ ); her iPod. A bundle of letters from friends, not just Logan, was tied with a red silk ribbon. He sat that aside, making a note to go through it someday. 

At the bottom, he found her jewellery box. Opening it slowly, he stared at the familiar pieces: the long, thin necklaces that dangled low; the ornate bracelets she loved; the delicate rings she’d amassed. One of the ring trays was sitting askew and he pressed it with his thumb, frowning when it wouldn’t settle into place.

“Huh.”

Tilting the box towards him, he noticed a tiny white triangle wedged beneath the tray. Grasping it between his finger and thumb, he pulled, startled when the ring tray dislodged, revealing what appeared to be an envelope beneath the rows of accessories.

More shocking still was the elegant scrawl upon it: _Logan_

“What the…”

Once in his hands, he hesitated briefly. Yes, it bore his name, but Lilly had hidden it from him. It was unsent for a reason. What if he was never meant to read it?

“It’s too late for this,” he muttered, sitting it on the dresser.

As he pivoted and stormed out of the bedroom, the faint tinkling of laughter drifted from the room. Not just any laughter— _her laughter._

“Lilz?”

Peeking behind him, he was stunned to see the letter on the bed, his name facing up. Calling to him.

“I guess that answers that question,” he murmured, reluctantly sitting down beside it.

It was his to read. His to know. But did he want to see?

Praying for closure, he tore open the envelope and tugged free the pages within…

* * *

Setting down the curling iron, Veronica fluffed the looping waves, turning sideways and frowning at her reflection. Was it too much? It was too much. She was clearly trying to impress and this wasn’t a fucking date. This was an _explanation_ and it could end horribly. It could end in _I will never be over my girlfriend of twelve years who was brutally murdered, let’s stay friends_ and who the hell could be mad about that? Not her. _She_ wasn’t over Lilly Kane, and they’d been friends for a week.

On the bright side, she decided as she studied herself with a critical eye, she would look amazing if she called Mac and Wallace for an emergency night of drinking slash terrible decisions at the bar. So, there was that.

Smoothing over her sleeveless black blouse and burgundy pants, she grabbed her purse and headed downstairs. Her father was pouring potato chips into a small bowl in the kitchen, preparing to watch _It’s A Wonderful Life_ for the millionth time.

“Hey kiddo, you look beautiful. Going somewhere special?”

“Just grabbing a drink,” she replied casually. “But you know how that goes: one drink becomes a few and then you’re crashing on Mac’s sofa because her place is closer to the bar and the world is spinning.”

_And the lie is set. Not that a thirty-something should have to explain herself to her father. God, I can’t wait to have my own place again_.

“Send me a text if you’re not coming home,” Keith replied, kissing the top of her head. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad. Don’t eat all the chips! We have a date to watch Heat Miser tomorrow before dinner!”

Keith chuckled, waving the bowl around. “Oh daughter of mine, as if I didn’t raise your bottomless leg. There’s two more bags on the top shelf.”

Shrugging on her leather jacket, Veronica waved goodbye and stepped out into the California chill.

It was a thirty-minute drive to Logan’s house at this time of night. She knew this, because she’d spent a few evenings there with Duncan and Dick, unpacking his belongings and decorating. Wanting it to be a home, ready to live in. Dishes in place, condiments on hand, the basics ready. She’d placed his mother’s painting on the feature wall in the living room, trusting it would ground him. A bowl of oranges from the Montevideo Bodega in a basket completed the kitchen.

_An explanation_ , he’d said. What did that mean? 

An explanation for why he’d kissed her and didn’t mean it? An explanation for meaning it, but running away as if repulsed? The _whoosh_ of air from her lungs as he’d fled her that day had felt no different than the bullet striking her vest the night she was shot on duty. He’d wounded her as gravely.

_Why did I let myself get attached? He’s not fucking available!_

The heel of her hand struck the steering wheel angrily as she waited at a red light. She’d known it was a terrible idea. Wallace had known it, too. Had warned her to back off, take a break from her visits. _You’re too close to him, Vee._ She was being a good friend. He was alone. 

He only talked to her for the first month, she was told. _He needs me_ , she insisted. She encouraged him to speak in therapy, to reach out to Dick. She coached his lawyer through his Internal Affairs interview. Two months in, he was less sedated, and more… Logan. Quotes, quips, and the Rule of Three. Always a round of the game, usually by the window. Silly questions, serious ones. The kind that made her cry.

She knew he was afraid of pears. Sickened by them. She knew his father had forced them down his throat in a rage, and it broke her heart. He’d seen her scar on her arm from Cassidy Tasing her, knew why the crackle of lightning across the sky made her tense. Why she hated thunderstorms. 

By the time she realized how she felt, the recognition that he’d never found closure for the loss of Lilly was crystalline. She’d tucked the feeling down deep, ignoring it. Dismissing it as selfish and unfair. She knew what he did not know, and what she could not tell him: that Lilly had been planning to leave him. She would never tell him, never break their bond nor Lilly’s confidence. 

Denial worked for her—until he’d pulled her against him, kissing her breathless on a cold November Sunday. Her heart had sung for a brief minute, only to crumple beneath his feet as they thundered down the hall away from her.

She hadn’t seen him in nearly a month, blaming finals. The reality was, she couldn’t bear to see him in the hospital, under the scrutinizing stares of the staff, and be rejected. Not there. She wanted to cry privately. She knew the staff were taking bets on them, even making comments about _shipping_ them, as if they were TV characters. She had no interest in living out a soap opera for the amusement of the nurses and orderlies. She had licked her wounds privately and phoned him twice a week instead, and they’d mutually pretended nothing had changed.

_An explanation_. As she turned onto Logan’s street, her heart began to race. _I guess I’ll finally have one, either way._

It seemed fitting it would happen in Venice Beach. It was where she’d loved and eventually left Norris. Now, it was where she would learn if she had hope of a future with Logan—in a house sold to him by Norris’ cousin, thanks to her ex sharing a post online. Kismet, maybe, or cruel fate?

“Fate is a fickle bitch,” she muttered, pulling into the driveway.

She’d only just turned off the engine before the front door opened, revealing a familiar figure silhouetted in golden light. A personal angel for her pine tree. She grabbed her purse from the passenger side and glanced up, startling as Logan appeared outside her car.

“What the fuck?!”

“Sorry, sorry! Hi, Veronica.”

His smile was so warm, so… boyish, she couldn’t help but melt. “You know I was coming in, right?”

He opened her car door for her, stepping aside. “I know you are. And I want you to come inside. But I wanted to talk to you now. Out here. Fuck, this made more sense in my head.”

_He just wants to be friends. Okay Veronica, chin up. You knew this was a possibility. You needed two years to get over Norris. He needs time, too._

Stepping out of the car, she screwed on a casual smile. “Logan, it’s okay. Just… what is it?”

“I found a letter last night. From Lilly.”

She took a step back in surprise. “Oh. That must have been really emotional…”

Logan nodded, his hands thrust inside his jacket pockets. “Yeah. It was hidden inside her jewellery box. It… She wanted to leave me, Veronica.”

_Act like you didn’t know, act like you didn’t know_. “You two were so close. I don’t understand.”

“Lilly loved me, but she also loved women. We had tried being polyamorous a few times, mostly for her, but it never worked out. She…” Logan stared up at the sky, shaking his head sadly. “She thinks that I only stayed with her because I couldn’t trust anyone else. And that’s not true, Veronica. I loved Lilly.”

“I know you did.” It was the one thing she’d disagreed with that morning at The Violet: Logan did love Lilly, very much. “And she loved you, too. She told me so.”

“Just not like I loved her,” Logan replied sadly. “And that’s okay, you know. People grow apart, and if she… She would be my best friend, always. You know?”

“Of course she would,” Veronica soothed. “And you would be hers. You two shared so much together, I have no doubt about that.”

The street was deserted around them. Christmas lights blinked on scattered homes along the block, shimmering like earthbound stars. Logan stepped closer, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her skin.

“Anyway, I’m glad I found that letter last night, because it lets me off the hook. You know, I don’t have to feel guilty anymore.”

Her heart skipped as she tilted her head up, meeting his searching gaze. “F-feel guilty about what?”

“Moving on,” he murmured.

His hand grazed her cheek and she whimpered, leaning into the warmth of his touch. He had captured her and she was willing prey, leaning into him as his mouth found hers. The kiss was soft at first, feather-light and tentative, but as her hands slipped around his back and pulled him closer, the spark was ignited. Oxygen met flame and they combusted, a hungry, needy tangling of tongues as Veronica pressed onto her tiptoes, cursing her height.

Logan broke away, chuckling low. “I told you when we met: I can crouch in the name of equity. Or…”

Veronica gasped as his hands gripped her hips, hoisting her into the air. She wrapped her ankles tightly around his waist, laughing nervously.

“Don’t drop me!”

“Never,” he promised.

She kissed him hard, fingers scraping through his short hair as he carried her inside and kicked the door shut. His teeth grazed her lower lip and she moaned softly, to his amusement.

“I knew the vanilla coffee was a façade,” he teased.

Her feet giddily kicked against Logan’s hips as he spun them down the hall, past the stairs to the foyer proper. His hand slid through her curls, cradling her head as he pressed her back against the wall with a soft _thump_. She felt him straining through his jeans and her eyes rolled back at the contact. And yet, her brain wouldn’t fully shut off, despite the fact his exquisite mouth was on her neck, sucking and nipping near her jugular.

“Logan… what are we doing?”

He pressed his forehead to hers, smiling shyly. “No idea,” he admitted.

He was beautiful. But she needed to know that he was _hers_ before she handed him her fragile heart.

“Should we… talk about this?”

“In fine detail, or macro level?” he murmured.

Veronica’s fingertips traced his jawline, memorizing the angle, just in case. “Macro will do, for now.”

“I can do macro.” At this, he thrust playfully against her groin, and she gasped. “Veronica, we talked outside because… the past is out there. It ended out there, so we could start in here. It’s why I came out to the car.”

_Oh!_ If the past was outside… then she was the present, in here. And hopefully, a future.

“So we’re… doing this? No running away?”

Logan winced, pressing his lips to her forehead. “No running from you. No running from me.”

“Okay.” It was so much more than okay. “What now?”

“I was thinking I would show you around my house,” Logan replied softly, kissing her nose. “I’m told that’s good etiquette.”

“What a gentleman.”

_Showing her around the house_ , Veronica learned, was a euphemism for _kissing her in every room of the house_. In the living room, she lost her leather jacket, Logan’s eyes darkening as he realized her blouse was semi-sheer. In the kitchen, he hoisted her onto the countertop, the two of them pleased with the height of the structure and the possibilities it offered. Her boots never made it up the stairs; his loafers were kicked into the office, thumping off a wall. By the time they’d kissed and staggered their way to the master bedroom, Veronica’s pants were crumpled in the upstairs bathroom, while her hands made swift work of his jeans in the hallway. Give and take, push and pull, they tested boundaries, tentative and unsure, but full of longing.

“Our tour ends here,” Logan announced, breaking off an intense kiss against the bedroom door. “Veronica, I—“

“What’s wrong? We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she reassured him.

“No, no I do. You have no idea how much I do.”

Veronica smirked, bumping her hips against him. “I might have _some_ idea…”

Logan smirked, brushing the hair from her face. “Point taken. I mean… I don’t have anything. I didn’t assume…”

Veronica’s cheeks flushed as she bowed her head. “Not that I _assumed_ but um… if I go find my purse, there’s a strip with your name on it.”

“Have I told you that your preparedness for _everything_ is incredibly sexy?” Logan murmured, nipping her ear lobe.

A playful debate ensued over who would find the purse, ending in Logan running downstairs, arguing that he’d tossed it on a chair, and should therefore retrieve it. Veronica leaned against the wall of the bedroom, fingers grazing her swollen lips in shock.

_This is happening. Logan and I… together._

She’d thought of it several times over the past five months—sometimes as fantasy, pushing herself over the edge while her hand slipped between her thighs; other times as sweet torture, a craving that would never be sated. He would never want her, a broken woman burdened by her past. She was certain of it.

And yet, the footfalls in the corridor and the grinning man before her in black boxer briefs and a slim fitting green shirt contradicted every fear, every self-deprecating thought. He handed her the small bag and slid his hands over the flimsy black lace of her panties, eyeing her with admiration.

“Please hurry,” he urged her.

Her hand slid inside the inner zipper pocket where she’d stashed a line of foil wrappers, pulling it free with a triumphant hum. “Think this will be enough?”

Logan plucked them from her grasp and smirked. “For tonight,” he decided.

Veronica’s knees shuddered as she tossed her purse aside. _Oh, fuck._

He walked her backwards, into the darkness of the room, his deft fingers unbuttoning her blouse as she eagerly tackled his shirt in reply. Shrugging out of the flimsy garment, she eagerly ran her hands over the definition of his abdomen, tracing it up his chest to his collarbone. Impulsively, she leaned in, flicking her tongue across his chest. Knowing him through every sense. His throaty hum of approval made her heart sing.

In darkness, they found their way by touch and taste: the back of her knees bumping off the edge of the bed, folding her down beneath him; the feel of his tongue as he kissed and teased his way between her thighs. Without sight, they located by sound: whispered pleas for _more_ , _faster, just like that, don’t stop_ ; moans caught in throats as hands caressed, cupped and stroked; their names called to each other, a private game of Marco Polo.

Neither would be lost again; they would find each other.

He entered her slowly, his forehead pressed against hers, pleading to keep her eyes open. In the scattered moonlight cast between the slats of the blinds, she knew him there, as she gasped at the fullness, but more so the depth of emotion in those haunting irises of warn chestnut hovering above her.

_He loves me back_.

“Veronica…”

“Me, too,” she replied, echoing all he struggled to express.

They found a rhythm, unhurried at first, but unhesitating. Logan shifted her hips and the depth of connection felt like a surrender, a merger of two into one. And maybe it was, she decided as he whispered her name with such reverence, she blinked away tears; maybe that was how it _should_ feel. When she felt herself peak, felt the breath hitch in her lungs and her body tighten around him, she swore the room shimmered with starlight.

* * *

Veronica’s head rested on his chest, her hand stretched across his chest beneath the tangled splay of her hair. Yawning softly, she pressed her lips to his heart and tilted her ear, listening to it beat.

Strong, steady, calm. It pleased her, like the soft, relaxed smile his mouth curved into as he slept. His left arm was draped over her waist, holding her loosely against him. 

She memorized the topography of him in silent appreciation: the jut of hip bone; the washboard abs that belonged on a fitness magazine; the firm pectorals. The small, jagged scar along his ribcage, hypertrophic—a warning bell in the back of her mind chiming. _Stitches never received, lest someone ask questions?_ Her lips pressed here too with love as her fingertips skimmed upwards, tracing the line of his clavicle to his neck. 

Veronica stifled a giggle as she counted three hickeys blossoming in various shades of purple there. While not intentional, she was unusually proud of them.

“If you’re wide awake,” a sleepy voice murmured, “I could tire you out again.”

“Sorry.” A beat. “I thought we used them all?”

“Saved one for morning,” Logan replied, squinting an eye open. “Planned ahead. Although there’s plenty I can do without it.”

“I’m _very_ aware,” Veronica demurred, squeezing her thighs together at the memory. “S’okay, I’m gonna use the bathroom. Rest. You more than earned it.”

“No leaving.”

“Not a chance,” she promised, kissing his cheek. 

Grabbing his shirt off the floor, she tugged it on like a robe, inhaling the scent of his cologne. The sleeves covered her hands, the shirttails skirting her upper thighs. Satisfied, she padded down the hall and relieved herself, laughing at her reflection.

Her once elegant looping curls were Medusa-like; her neck bore several distinct blueberry stains, and her eyeliner was smudged. Dabbing off her eyeliner, she ran a finger of toothbrush around her mouth to freshen up and finger combed her hair into something slightly more respectable before returning to Logan’s room.

In the light of morning, she knew him by sight. 

Logan had rolled onto his side, facing the window. Standing at the door, her hand gripped the doorframe tightly as she followed the thick, angry scars snaking from his upper back, beneath the black sheet tucked beneath his ribs. Five lines, some thicker, some thin.

It stole her breath away.

_“The smell of chocolate chip cookies baking… Driving on the 101 with the Oldies station playing… and wanting to leave the lights on.”_

Three things Logan associated with feeling loved. She’d come to understand the first two over the last five months, as they talked in the hospital. Lilly seldom cooked, but whenever Logan was sick, the one thing she managed was chocolate chip cookies. Driving on the 101 was his fondest memory of his mother. But the last one had eluded her… until now.

They’d made love in the dark the night before. Did he not know he was loved?

_I’ll show you._ Shrugging off his shirt, she slipped into bed behind him, fighting back tears. _I’ll show you that you are so loved._

His father had stolen his childhood, his safety, his very body from him. She would help him reclaim it.

Gently, she pressed her lips to his shoulder, his neck and down… Down to where the flesh broke angry and red against the golden tan of a life spent in the sun and surf. She kissed the raised skin, trailing a light finger along the line. A different topography to learn, to map.

A soft voice, uncertain and shaky. “Veronica?”

“You’re beautiful. Every inch of you,” she murmured, her lips skimming to a neighbouring line. “I want to know all of you.”

His hand reached back and she grabbed it, interlacing her fingers through his as she trailed kisses down his spine, where an angry, jagged line cut into his lower back. He squeezed as she soothed this final, brutal brand with her touch, murmuring against his skin

“I see you, Logan. Like you see me. You don’t have to be afraid.” 

He tugged her arm gently, pulling her on top of him as he rolled onto his back. He brushed her hair behind her ear, studying her intently as she shifted her knees and straddled his hips. .

“What?” she whispered.

“I love you, too,” he answered at last, pulling her down into a heated kiss.

* * *

**December 24 th**

Sunset came far too quickly for her liking, the days growing shorter as winter made itself at home in the hills and canyons of the coast she called home. 

Mornings were spent in the warmth of Logan’s embrace and the luxurious duvet pulled to her chin. Afternoons were spent exploring the neighbourhood or each other. Unhurried touches, lingering kisses, and a mutual fascination in cause and effect made for intense lovemaking, Veronica soon learned: as keen as she was to learn every secret button to press on Logan, so was his desire to know hers.

Evenings, she had committed to her father, foolishly defining them as _after sunset_. She knew it was the distance of Stanford getting to him, but her heart was already aching at the prospect of a last term away from Logan. Which was how something once beautiful—the hazy pinks and purples gleaming over the Pacific Ocean—had become bittersweet.

Tonight was different: a pre-holiday celebration awaited them both at Casa Mars. Her father was impatient, insisting they arrive at a reasonable hour to watch holiday movies, but Veronica had put her foot down. Their bags were already packed and waiting at the front door for the night ahead. 

Logan needed the ocean, and he would have it on their daily walk along the shore.

“I don’t think you can keep playing the ‘my boyfriend is crazy’ card forever,” Logan teased as they approached the water.

“No, but it’s the first week. Surely, we can get a little mileage out of it for privacy,” Veronica countered playfully.

“Your father has an actual shotgun to clean, Veronica.”

She snorted, swinging their joined hands as the waves rolled in over their feet. “And I have a Glock. You still have a weapon, don’t you?”

“I might.”

“So what are you worried about?” Nudging his shoulder she tugged him along. “C’mon, slowpoke.”

Logan’s arm hooked around her waist, his free arm boosting her over his shoulder. “You’re too skittish from that mountain of sugar you ate. Slow down!”

“Hey! You’re cheating and using your size privilege again.”

“Don’t recall you complaining about my size in bed last night,” he growled in her ear.

Veronica’s cheeks flushed hot as she weakly slapped his back. “You _know_ what I mean! Put me down!”

“This is supposed to be a _leisurely_ stroll, remember? Cooling off so we don’t have sex in your dad’s spare room tonight?”

Damn it, he was right. Maybe she should have skipped the last five snickerdoodles—and the espresso. She pointed to the ground with a stern look and Logan relented, swatting her ass as her feet touched ground.

“Stroll,” he reminded her.

Looping her arm through his, she huddled close for shelter from the sharp wind off the water. “So, have you given any more thought to my dad’s suggestion?”

Logan frowned. “I’m not sure. What I do know is that, at least for now, I can’t return to policing.”

It was a loss to the force, but understandable. She’d barely forced herself back to work after losing Meg. After Lilly… she was done for good. She couldn’t fathom returning to work after the loss Logan had endured. The guilt and memories would eat her alive.

“So, why not take the offer?”

Logan sighed, staring out over the water. “Do you really think I’d make a good private investigator?”

Veronica dug her heels into the sand, grinding to a halt. “Logan, you’re a gifted, insightful investigator who’s capable of working independently and knows how to network. Of _course_ you’d be great at it! My father and I would know. He can set you up with his friend to start off and learn the ropes, and you can stay on or go solo. Or you could always live off your trust fund. Surf all day, cook me dinner…”

“Do lawyers even make it home for dinner?” Logan mused.

“Fair point. I’ll reheat it when I get home, and I’m sure it will be _amazing_.” 

“You’re used to living off sandwich meat and expired condiments. It’s easy to impress you.” He tapped her nose lightly with a finger as she stuck out her tongue. “As much as Dick insists I should be a gentleman of leisure, I’ve never been comfortable sitting still. I try not to use Father Dearest’s money.”

“Then consider it? Or if there’s anything else that interests you and we can help, ask us.” Pressing onto her toes, Veronica gently grazed his lips with her own. “If you do become a PI, I promise to be your first client.”

“And what would a District Attorney need Sam Spade for? Don’t they have an entire paid force of investigators… what’s the word for them…it’s on the tip of my tongue…”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Oh, you mean _cops_?”

Logan wrapped an arm around her shoulder as a sudden wind drifted off the water, biting cold. “That would be it. I hear they even have _detectives_.”

“They do. But, um… Maybe I’ll be on the other side of the courtroom.”

She held her breath nervously, unable to look him in the eye. In the last few months, her career ambitions had shifted. A seminar course on Wrongful Convictions and the stories told by dozens of clients at Cliff’s memorial service had left Veronica wondering if perhaps there was a way to both honour a friend and respect a system that held power for good—when wielded by people with the right reverence and intentions. 

A week of crying over _When They See Us_ on Netflix in November had made her decision: she wanted to fight for people who needed to be heard. 

How her law and order father, or her (now former) detective boyfriend would take this news… she was anxious. She _hoped_ they would react well. Hoped they would say—

“You’re going to pick up the mantle for Cliff,” Logan concluded.

“Yes, but bigger. Cliff always said he was satisfied with helping the little guy here in Neptune and the city, but I think he was just afraid to go for bigger cases. I’m not afraid, Logan. I’ve always wanted a fair fight in court, but how often is it a fair fight on the other side?”

As Logan’s lips pressed to the top of her head, Veronica felt a weight lift off her shoulders. “Can I be your angel investor for your law firm?”

“I’ll let you convince me to lose my pride,” she demurred.

“Good. Because I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

They continued down the shoreline, toes sinking in the wet sand. She burrowed her face in Logan’s sweater as he hugged close, inhaling the scent of his cologne—a faint citrus blended with the sea. His favourite things, and now hers. They sustained him, and in turn, they sustained her.

“We should turn around soon,” Logan murmured. “Head to your dad’s.”

“Soon,” she agreed, curving her arm around his waist. “Not yet.”

“I’ve got a quote for your office, if you like. Could get it framed, or stitched on a throw pillow if you’re feeling a rustic décor.”

“Pillows are punchable on bad days. Let’s hear it.”

Logan curved their path up the sand, turning them away from the boardwalk and back towards his home. “ _’The world is a fine place and worth fighting for.’_ Ernest Hemingway.”

Veronica stared out across the water, watching the waves arc and curl towards the silver-tinged clouds. The sky was a deep cherry plum, breathtaking in its clarity. At her side was a good man, a man filled with wisdom and love. A man who, like her, had seen far more pain than one person should bear. 

She thought of the statistics in her classes, of the injustices in the news. Of the life Cliff had saved with his own. Of the lives Stewart Manning had taken in a hateful perversion of faith. She thought of the young boy from the apartment where she and Logan had met, of the violence he had witnessed until one day, his mother could no longer bear it. She thought of Lilly and Meg, and her chest ached with longing, with a yearning to know and see all they would have done next.

Pressing her palm to his heart, she took comfort in its steady beat.

“I agree with the second part.”  
  
  


[Story Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/074NxDR14f9ZBfXlo8ZaAV?si=38aX05qESSmAJCZzLNawag)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done. I've seen this ending, this echo of the movie for months in my head and we're finally here. It's wild.
> 
> This is the first serious multi I've done for VM. For those who've commented, sleuthed, pleaded for an update along the way... thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming along for the ride.
> 
> Don't forget to say goodbye.


End file.
